


Deafening White Noise

by evildoughnut



Series: Obsessions and masks [2]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types, Saw (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, Dominance, Established Relationship, Fight Sex, First Time Topping, Fluff ... sort of, Frottage, Hallucinations, Jealousy, M/M, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Predator/Prey, Psychopaths In Love, Rough Oral Sex, Smut, Stalking, Stalky boi is bad at feelings, Temporary Character Death, The doctor will make everything worse soon enough, Voyeurism, the doctor is a bad person, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 04:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19055413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evildoughnut/pseuds/evildoughnut
Summary: Michael Myers found peace in something other than killing. After an  impulsive mistake, he fears he might lose something he never knew he  could want. His obsessive nature urges him to make sure it never  happens, no matter the cost.Sequel to "The secret behind the white mask"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is a sequel, I strongly recommend you read “The Secret Behind the White Mask” if you have not already. Elements from it will be referred to throughout the story.

While Michael Myers secretly observed the strong and scarred back of The Trapper, he felt the familiar voyeuristic excitement swell steadily inside him. In the darkness of the Macmillan estate and the thick fog that seemed to be a permanent feature there, it was easy for him to stealthily watch from the open window. The other man was industriously toiling away, repairing a sabotaged trap, and so Michael had not been detected yet. The Shape had gradually made his way inside the workshop, gripping his signature kitchen knife, and silently stalked. 

Evan Macmillan never noticed when he did this in the past and he never would, less Michael wanted his presence known.

If this were any other time, he would come close enough for his breathing to be heard. Evan would stop whatever he was doing and turn towards him, never surprised nor frightened by the sudden creeping presence. He welcomed it. The older would sometimes greet him verbally, with a gruff voice that poorly tried to disguise his obvious fondness. 

Occasionally, Evan would simply reach out and touch him without saying anything, hands grabbing him possessively, powerful bodies pressed together roughly. 

He would touch him back. 

It always escalated fervently from there. 

Presently, however, Michael Myers had a much more nefarious intent in mind. 

The Shape had heard the killers of the world he inhabited speak of the whispers of the Entity haunting them, yet could not relate. He felt the presence of the eldritch monstrosity well enough and witnessed Its indescribable claws rip apart the sacrifices but he was not tormented by Its commands like the others. The difference between them and him was that he had been plagued by another affliction long before his descent into the fog. 

He was just a small child when he started hearing it. It had started out very quietly, like the insistent buzzing of an unseen fly, but it steadily grew. Not whispers at all; it was a shrill and unnerving white noise, irritating and overbearing. It drowned out everything, and to his dismay, no one else seemed to be able to hear it. His parents and his sister would go about their mundane routine peacefully while he grew more restless.

He stopped speaking then. How could his meek child voice possibly be heard over its overwhelming droning? He could hardly hear his own thoughts. 

Michael was only six-years-old when he realized that killing would silence it. There were no whispers telling him to grab the knife and head upstairs to Judith. He simply knew. All the pieces laid before him serendipitously; the sharp blade, the clown mask and the unsuspecting victim. 

He remembered so distinctively, though he was so young, the overwhelming bliss he felt after finally having found silence. He had stumbled out of the house in a dazed disbelief, the wind blowing the dried leaves around his feet, the moon bright above him joined by the headlight of his parent’s approaching car. The white noise was not out there with him.

During that heavenly moment in the chilly autumn night, it was just he and his sister’s blood dripping from the knife. 

The screams of his parents and the hands shaking him could not reach him; they were so unobtrusive next to the racket he had to endure before. 

Yet, much too soon after, the shrill noise returned. It returned stronger than ever and was coupled with the seemingly incessant screams of the inmate of the asylum he was confined in. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it was also joined by the infuriating inane ramblings of Doctor Loomis, who understood nothing despite arrogantly thinking otherwise. 

Michael Myers endured it quietly and waited. 

He knew the moment would come where he would be able to kill again and find blissful silence once more.

Killed again he did and it was as splendid as he remembered it. 

Yet in this realm, much to his surprise, he had found Evan Macmillan and in him rested an alternative way of suppressing the noise. Perhaps it was not completely silent, but he certainly hushed it enough to have it become bearable. Somehow this monstrous, domineering man found his way to him and showed him that one could find pleasure in something other than murder. 

It wasn’t just the sex either. Evan’s presence alone would bring him a perplexing sense of peace that he never experienced with any living being before. Michael enjoyed watching him from afar just as he enjoyed sitting silently beside him, listening to the tinkering of the sharp steel of his traps. 

When The Shape wasn’t in a trial stalking and slaughtering to satiate his blood lust, he could always seek the company of The Trapper. In a foggy, hellish world where most were miserable, moralists would find his good fortune unfair.

Michael Myers was not a well-adjusted young man and, subsequently, a thought occurred to him that developed into a yearning. It was something greedy and devious. It was a rapacious urge that would make anyone else ashamed for considering it but once he set his mind to something he could not be dissuaded.

He needed to know if killing Evan would feel as good as fucking him. 

In the Macmillan workshop, Michael’s breathing became heavy and uneven at the thought of the impending slaughter and he gripped his blade tighter. His stare was intensely focused on the figure before him laboring away, unaware. He thought of Judith brushing her hair that night, unaware of her looming fate. 

The Trapper finally heard his presence now so he put down his grimy tools and turned around to face him.

Evan considered him with a slight tilt of his head before taking off his frightening grinning mask and dropping it with the rest of the clutter on his worktable. Instantly taking it off upon his visits wasn’t customary but he had clearly interpreted the ragged breathing as lust. In a way, he wasn’t too far off. 

The Trapper’s scarred lips were upturned in a knowing smirk and his eyes glimmered with a predatory glint. “Back so soon, boy?” 

That deep voice dripping with intent still sent pleasured shivers down Michael’s core, even after all the times they had been together. Perhaps he had been unwittingly conditioned. 

The older man closed the gap between them, his strong, blood-reddened hands grasping his hips to pull him closer. He had not even bothered to remove the kitchen knife from his hand, as he would have done so in the beginning. The Trapper trusted him enough by now to truly let his guard down. This is why he did not flinch when Michael’s hand wrapped around his neck; they were used to playing rough. 

Despite the strength of the man before him, Myer’s blade pierced his guts with surprising ease. He quickly twisted the knife and jerked his hand expertly, mortally slicing the abdomen, drawing a wet, gargled groan. He pressed his masked forehead against Evan’s for he wanted to feel his last breath upon the latex, mingling with his own irregular one. He wanted to look directly into his eyes as life drained from them.

Unlike his past victims, there was no fear in those eyes. Instead there was a look of bewilderment that turned into a quiet, indignant rage. They gleamed with a promise of wrath that would have made any other man cower. With gritted teeth and an almost animalistic growl, The Trapper grasped his arm, trying in vain to stop the already irreparable damage. Michael hardly felt the hand clawing at his arm but he was hyper aware of the warmth of the blood pouring over his own and unto the floor between them. 

Eventually those eyes dulled, the grip loosened, and the large body slumped on Michael’s shoulder before falling heavily unto the ground. The impact of his weight and metal protrusions jagged in his flesh echoed in the room. 

The deed was done and his loud breathing was the only remaining sound in the workshop. The younger killer stared at his bloodied knife with a slow head tilt and could not comprehend the feeling of emptiness that followed the act of murdering his lover. 

He should be filled with the blissful after-glow that followed the kill yet he only felt a dull, sinking sensation in his stomach. This amalgamation of his lust for the Trapper and his lust for death should have felt better than anything he’s ever experienced, and yet it all felt wrong, somehow. 

This unpleasant feeling was new. It would seem that, once again, an interaction with Evan Macmillan left him in uncharted territory. Like that time in his room, in Haddonfield, when he had him pinned against the wall and whispered a confession of desire in his ear. As far as Michael was aware, he had never been wanted before and hadn’t known what to make of it or the way his body felt in response. At the time he didn’t even know men could be together. 

Just as he hadn’t known that killing could leave him feeling hollow. 

Michael stopped staring at his reddened blade and moved his gaze over to the Trapper’s fallen corpse. At a loss of what to do now, he sat besides the lifeless body and decided he would wait for his revival. All his victims came back for more trials in this world, so he simply assumed that Evan Macmillan would rise again.

A sizable pool of blood had formed bellow the fallen figure, it’s metallic smell blending fittingly with the sharp iron of the contraptions surrounding them. He kept still, tearing his gaze away from the corpse to absently stare straight ahead instead. He had no concept of time in this world, so how long he sat there he couldn’t be certain.

He didn’t mind waiting. 

He waited fifteen years to escape and return home, after all. 

Michael felt it then, amongst the white noise that hadn’t quieted after the kill. He felt the invisible tugs of the Entity pull at him, beckoning his presence at a trial. He also felt something else, harsh disapproval emitting from Its unseen presence. Perhaps It did not take kindly to him harming one of Its pets.

Michael thought about defying It and staying right where he was but eventually raised, knife in hand and headed towards the exit and into the fog engulfing his large frame. Even the bogeyman couldn’t refuse a call for a trial. Besides, what could be better than fresh victims to cleanse that sinking feeling away? 

… 

 

Michael Myers was sitting on his bed, dimly illuminated by moonlight from Haddonfield’s ever lasting night, serene and bloodied after the hunt. He did as he usually would and gazed upon his sullied blade, savoring and reminiscing. He thought of Judith and of the group of survivors he just decimated and did his best not to think of The Trapper’s death. 

A slight, secret smile grazed his lips beneath the latex mask as he felt the overwhelming heartbeat approaching. He was glad by the confirmation of Evan’s resuscitation. There was also something almost sweetly charming to him about Macmillan’s total lack of stealth. In the beginning, when the latter was insignificant and to be ignored, he could have guffawed at how obvious his presence was when he tried to observe him from afar. 

Presently, it seemed even worse than usual and he could actually hear the decisive, heavy steps echoing in the empty suburban streets as they approached. 

When Michael heard the resonating loud crack of the splintering wood of his front door shattering upon being kicked open, he felt a bit of a jolt. The Trapper didn’t call to him upon entering. He marched inside and headed directly up the stairs and down the hallway to him, boots stomping raucously. 

Oh. 

Evan was angry. 

Slowly he turned his head towards his doorway, silently staring at the looming, seething figure that stood there with balled fists. He dared not move from his spot on the bed despite convincing fighting reflexes that urged him to attack first, less this would end poorly for him. Yet, under the glare of the other masked man, he calculatingly deemed it best to not further enflame him. 

The Trapper growled out through gritted teeth, his voice menacingly low “Michael…” 

Michael curiously tilted his head at that. The utterance of his name sounded like a threat. The other killer always called him ‘boy’, unless he was serious about something. The way he used his given name, hissing it out like that, was beyond serious. 

Abruptly, Evan rushed over. He violently whacked the knife out of his hands, sending it flying across the floor and out of his reach. The Shape’s eyes followed his blade, unable to help himself, instincts telling him to keep sight on his weapon for future use. He should have paid attention to The Trapper instead. The other grabbed him by the lapel of his coverall and savagely yanked him off the bed. 

The Trapper’s brutal strength never ceased to amaze him as he found himself pinned against the wall on the opposite side of the room. His back hit the hard surface with force but the pain was muted by the adrenaline coursing through him. Michael’s hands grasped the scarred forearms that were holding him firmly, a defensive gesture, but chose not to fight back despite the fact that he could. 

With a growl, Evan yanked him away from the wall and towards the adjacent window instead. The sound of the shattering glass was deafening and it took Michael a moment to register that his head had been shoved against it. The window broke upon impact of his skull and shoulders and he felt the pain now, blood dripping from the fresh cuts. 

They often played rough, in their passion. Bruises and occasional cuts were common between them during their intimate moments. This time, it was different. The Trapper was looking to hurt him without pleasure in mind. 

Michael’s mind raced as he was trying to analyze the situation and comprehend what was happening. Were they enemies now? Why? 

Petulantly, he was perplexed by the other’s rage. He gutted him, but so what? He would not do it again since he derived no gratification from it. They could just go back to how things were before. 

The Trapper shook him once and spat out “Did you get it out of your system?” The question was almost mocking in tone but it was evident that it was still a serious inquiry. He hadn’t expected the mute killer to murder him the first time, after all. 

Michael nodded affirmative in response. 

The Trapper did not seem impressed by the answer. He let out a harsh scoff and leaned intimidatingly closer to his masked face. His deep voice was now uncharacteristically low due to his heaving rage. “I came back, Michael. But now, let’s be frank here, man to man …” 

Evan’s grip upon his collar tightened and he pushed him harder against the broken glass. Michael felt the shards digging into him painfully but he made no sound or offered no resistance. He just stared at the man before him as he continued speaking, tone sharp and resentful. “… You had no real way of knowing I would, did you? You _guessed_.” 

The Shape tilted his head again. 

Ah. So that was it? 

Michael hadn’t even considered how the other would feel about his gamble. He never thought about how anyone felt. 

The Trapper read his silence and understood that he was right. His tone was quiet and cross “That’s what I thought.” Had The Shape been better at understanding emotions, he could have detected some hurt there too. 

The Trapper contemplated him for a moment before releasing his strong grip on his collar. His hands moved to his shoulders instead and pushed down, urging him to his knees. Michael complied almost too eagerly, considering the situation and the broken glass that littered the floor below him. He glanced up expectantly at the older man as he gruffly unbuckled his pants, freeing his quickly hardening member. 

The younger felt hopeful again because this felt familiar. Like before whatever this interaction was. He liked this. 

He reticently licked his lip and lifted his latex mask just enough to uncover his mouth. 

Much to his dismay, Michael felt the mask being yanked off his head and he inaudibly gasped at being exposed so. It took all of his will power to hold himself back from lashing out violently in response. He fleetingly considered rushing to his knife and stabbing Evan to death once more. 

Instead, he tilted his head down, looking to hide his face beneath his curls. He was not allowed that luxury; the scarred fingers tangled in his hair and forcibly yanked his head up. With his other hand, Evan guided his girth against his lips, which eventually parted in response.

The Trapper kept his own mask on, the power dynamic in the choice evident. 

This was part of his punishment.

He knew how much Evan loved his flesh face though he simply could not understand why. Objectively, he understood that he must be attractive. Or so he was led to believe by all the murmured praise and titillation from The Trapper the impossibly rare few times he pain-stricken managed to convince him to remove his blank mask. 

With eyes clouding over with lust and his erection always impossibly hard, Evan would tell him how pretty he was. 

Michael, on his end, couldn’t even stand looking into a mirror. He hated this face that felt foreign somehow, as if was not truly his. 

The Trapper didn’t call him pretty or a good boy this time, much to his disappointment. He just violently tightened his hold on his hair and fucked his mouth ruthlessly. Michael hadn’t truly realized how much he craved the approvals before now. 

Michael closed his eyes and did his best despite the punishing pace, still looking to please. Judging from the groans of pleasure he heard, he was doing well enough. He had gotten better at this over time, having learned at first from Evan’s own mouth pleasuring him. His eyes watered slightly as the large member kept hitting the back of his throat, gagging him. He felt himself hardening but didn’t touch himself. He never did before being with the Trapper either. 

He felt the bitter taste of his orgasm fill his mouth without warning and almost choked as he tried to swallow. Semen dripped and mingled with the saliva that had pooled out of his used and reddened lips. He felt self-conscious anew, knowing how wrecked he must look. Not at all like the bogeyman he was. He wanted to hide under the mask again. 

Evan Macmillan let go of his hair now and without saying a word, tucked himself back in his grimy clothing. He fleetingly glanced down at him one last time and turned to walk out of the room without expressing any signs of forgiveness. 

Michael Myers remained where he was, his own straining erection neglected but he hardly noticed for his mind was racing. 

This was the first time The Trapper had been angry with him. A new thought occurred to him, something awful that he never considered before this very moment. 

That he could lose him. 

There was darkness in his heart in response to the disgusting notion. He mulled on this silently, insidious malevolence filling him. 

Michael Myers would never let that happened, no matter what. 

Evan Macmillan belonged to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been 84 years but I finally wrote the first chapter of that promised sequel! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed. Writing Michael Myers is a challenge since he's such a mysterious character. I hope I'm doing him justice ...  
> I know I certainly love writing those two boys. 
> 
> Suggestions and comments are always welcomed!


	2. Chapter 2

Michael Myers had always enjoyed collecting artifacts of his obsessions and found temporary satiation in the objects when he could not be physically near. It wasn’t only that looking at the trinkets would remind him of the person, though that played a part. The objects also carried their sent and he could close his eyes and take in the fragrance. By stroking the memento while being particularly enthralled by the thought of them, he could almost feel their very life essence underneath his fingertips. 

It fueled him. 

The Shape had slipped into the empty Macmillan workshop while The Trapper was away and had stolen a few tools here and there, but he wanted more. He did not want to be subtle any longer. This time, he helped himself to the object he felt was most personally entwined to Evan. 

He wanted its absence to be noticed. 

This one, a bloodstained ivory and cracked, hung on a rack amongst the many others, like a centerpiece. Why did he make so many? It was almost vanity. Michael personally couldn’t be bothered with any of it. Evan also had many different types of attires and he did consider stealing a piece of clothing too, but he would save that for later. 

He had The Trapper’s grinning mask for now. 

He ran his fingers over the uneven, bone-like surface and felt a slight serenity. 

Soon it wouldn’t be enough. 

Michael had been coming here to stalk The Trapper whenever he could get away from The Entity’s call for sacrifices. Unsurprisingly, his trials had been on a steady decline in killing efficiency as of late. His one-track mind couldn’t stop thinking about the scarred man and their fight. About the fact that he still haven’t given him any signs that things could go back to normal. 

His hunting had suffered for it. 

However, he had The Trapper’s mask now and surely it would appease him enough to perform well. Maybe Laurie would be there? Her very existence would fill him with a murderous rage that always got his bloodlust flowing. He felt like a large body count was needed to soothe the atrocious white noise. He didn’t have Evan right now to quiet it. Ironically, his absence impacted his ability to kill, which also would have given him peace. It was a vicious circle he needed to break sooner than later. 

The Shape left the estate with his iconic knife in one hand, his new trophy in the other. 

…

An unexpected turn of event awaited Michael the next time he returned to observe The Trapper. The later was noisily and briskly rummaging through his tools, clearly irritated. He had good reason to be, for he was looking for something his stalker had most likely pocketed as a memento. After a while, having given up on his fruitless search, Michael witnessed him leave his home with in a resolute stride. 

Naturally, he noiselessly trailed Evan, curious as ever, for he was leading them towards The Pig’s domain.

The Gideon meat plant was nothing like the Macmillan estate. It was modern and sterile, save for the occasional pig’s blood, and brightly illuminated by humming fluorescence lighting. Despite this, Michael Myers knew he could still watch without being detected. He had done so often when transported there during trials, the many closed quarters and stacked boxes perfect for it. 

Evan headed straight to Amanda Young’s surveillance room that also served as her workshop. It was as if he already knew where she would be, and a clear sign that he had been here outside of trials. 

Michael was surprised to learn that The Trapper interacted with other killers aside from him. Perhaps this reflected his inherently selfish nature but in a way, he had expected to be his only world outside of the trials. Nothing indicated otherwise as far as he was concerned. He had never seen anyone else in the Macmillan estate. During the times he would go for a visit to find the ironworks empty, he simply assumed the killer was away on a trial. He had never really thought of it much beyond that.

Amanda Young did not seem perturbed by The Trapper’s presence in the meat plant. Unlike Evan and Michael, she never wore her mask outside of trials and so her pale face was bared under the harsh neon lights. Without the obscene animal head, she was pretty enough. Still, there was a haunted razor anguish that smirched her features along with the scars on the corners of her mouth. 

She simply glanced Evan’s large frame over as he entered the room, brash and domineering as ever. Her dark and tired eyes were following his movements before returning her attention to whatever she was working on before the interruption. Her demeanor was cold but there was no hostility to his visit. 

They seemed acquainted enough. Was she a threat? 

Myers had never been formally educated about the nature of sexual preference during his confinement and much of it was unknown to him. Despite this, he was an intelligent man and could make his own conclusions through observation. He comprehended that Evan Macmillan was not physically attracted to women and thus he would never choose her over him. This was a comfort for his restless mind and opportune for Amanda’s safety. 

The Shape, on his end, felt that he might have desired women in the past. He had experienced an exhilaration that reminded him of lust while stalking Laurie and her female friends. Since the kill preoccupied his every thought before Evan, he hadn’t consciously thought about sleeping with them at the time. Yet, he probably could be with a woman if he chose. 

One thing for certain, he would not choose The Pig. 

There was nothing about Amanda Young that appealed to Michael as a target. She lacked the innocence and helplessness of adolescence that he craved in his female victims. She oozed viciousness and her heart, calloused by the harsh realities of a troubled life, seemed bitterer in the Entity’s fog. 

With a curt head nod, The Trapper greeted her in his typical gruff manner. “Amanda.”

She was slightly hunched over a table with a pencil in hand, scribbling notes over the blue prints of her next ingenious trap design. She did not seem like she was going to stop what she was doing on account of his presence. Her tone was uncaring, but she did respond. “Evan.” 

The scarred man glanced over to a bench that was lined with various gears. Most of them seemed finer and less grimy than his own, the nature of his traps much more rudimentary than The Pig’s. Still, they both handled iron and bear traps and thus she was a resource. “I need to borrow a pair of cutting pliers.”

Amanda looked over her shoulder at him, half mocking, half genuinely curious. The man already had his own equipment; it was odd that he would need to borrow such a basic tool from her. “Why, you broke yours or something?”

If there was one thing The Trapper despised, it was being interrogated about his personal business. Especially when the answer would open the door for more inquiries. He shook his head and vaguely waved his hand dismissively “Woman, don’t ask me useless questions.”

With a scoff and her eyebrows raised high, she dropped the pencil on the table and turned around to look at him. She cocked her head to the side, her tone incredulous and sarcastic. “Oh, my bad.” She pointed to the door with her thumb. “You can just fuck off then.” 

The Trapper was not going to take no for an answer. This was evident by him boldly walking over to the bench despite being asked to leave and helping himself to the pliers. The other killer seemed exasperated but made no move to stop him. There was a strange familiarity in their seemingly rude exchange and Michael certainly took note of that. 

Evan could return home now that he’s gotten what he came for, and so he headed towards the door. However, something made him hesitate and he glanced over his shoulder at Amanda who had resumed her scribbling. 

Myers had no frame of reference of what The Pig’s usual demeanor was, but Evan could tell that something was troubling her. Perhaps he had come at an inopportune time. The large man looked her over quietly with his arms crossed for a moment before walking a bit closer and mumbling in a gruff voice “Bad trial?”

She repeated his words in a hostile murmur under her breath before putting down her pencil and turning around to face him once more. 

She regarded him quietly, eyes narrowed as if she was trying to see through him and his intent. Through the frightening mask. Through the mass of muscles and the cruelly damaged flesh. As if her eyes alone could see if he was worth opening up to. 

Apparently he was, because she tilted her head at him with a sigh. The sarcasm was there, but it only faintly masked the truth behind her words. “ Do you ever think about where the hell you went wrong? About when exactly that tipping point was that made your whole life just go to shit?” 

They were clearly rhetorical questions so The Trapper said nothing and stayed still, with his arms crossed and listened attentively as she continued. 

Amanda almost whispered the next part, but the utter sadness in her voice was undeniable. “I miss John.” She looked to the side then, her gaze far away as if reminiscing. “He gave me a new chance at life. A purpose. Everything I did was for him.” Her eyes, hard and intense, looked back at The Trapper as she spit out “I fucking killed for him, Evan.”

At some point in her monologue, the sorrow turned into an acrimonious rage and her tone became shriller, harsher. “I did everything he asked because I actually believed in all his bullshit… Until I didn’t.” 

She was holding her head now, fingers pulling at her hair in clear frustration. “It was always games and goddamn tests with him. I failed and now I’m trapped in this goddamn hellhole for all eternity!” Suddenly, in the pinnacle of her frenzy, The Pig grabbed a reverse bear trap that laid nearby and chucked it towards one of the surveillance screens. The startling and violent impact shattered the monitor, sending sparks and glass flying in a loud crash that echoed around them. 

The Trapper was almost comically motionless, clearly taken off guard by the sudden heartfelt eruption. 

Their previous interactions were mainly based around maintenance and building of traps. Sure, they had spoken about John Kramer and his importance and he had spoken about his past too, but never like this. He had not expected the other killer to speak so frankly. Then again, he had never really taken the time to actually ask about how she felt either. 

He rubbed the back of his thick neck, unsure how to respond, but not calloused enough to remain quiet. “I understand. My father, he …” 

He stopped short, realizing he was unwilling and perhaps unable to verbally explain the complex if not unhealthy relationship he had with Archie Macmillan. Explain that he missed him too. That despite following his every whim, he also felt that he failed him. That the man he admired most led him to a path of atrocious mass murder that cost him his soul. 

It was too much and Evan was not a man that could easily express his feelings openly.

Instead, he simply finished with “I killed for him too.” 

There was empathetic sorrow and sullenness in her face because she understood, despite the other’s minimal words. 

The Pig scoffed once and shook her head. Her voice was bitter as she gestured around them. “And here we are.”

The Trapper nodded, less defeated than her, but solemn. “Here we are.” 

Myers took all this in from his secret vantage point, but cared not about Amanda’s past or her state of mind. He only thought about what this meant in regards to The Trapper. Despite his lack of empathy, he could objectively comprehend that the two were sharing a moment, bonding over similar past experiences. 

A father figure and what it meant to both those individuals was insignificant to Michael Myers. He recalled when Doctor Loomis, most likely in another pathetic attempt at reaching out for some semblance of humanity in him, announced that his father had died. While doing so, Loomis had irritatingly watched his face eagerly, wanting a reaction of grief. He was only faced with catatonic indifference. 

The Shape’s only thought on the subject was that he wished he could have been the one to take his life. It wasn’t even that he felt distinct hatred towards him. There was just something inside him, amongst the white noise, which told him that Judith wasn’t enough. No one in his bloodline ought to live. He did feel some melancholy then, but only because he was locked away instead of being free to annihilate his family. 

Unlike him, it seemed that a father figure meant a lot to Amanda Young but certainly not as much as it meant to The Trapper. He did not share much of his past to Michael, having explained once that a lot of it was erased from his memories. Nevertheless, from what he did tell him about the Macmillan patriarch, the adoration was evident. 

There was also the daddy kink. Anyone, even one as inexperienced as him, could figure out his issues bled over into their sex life. That loaded word, ‘Daddy’, initially didn’t stimulate him the way that it did Evan but it became synonymous with their intimacy. It represented the steadfast man that used it, therefore the word started triggering him positively. 

A moment of silence had fallen between the two Michael was watching as they mulled over their predicament. Then, Evan shook his head and spoke in a grave and dutiful manner. “There is still purpose in this place. We have a job to do.” He was perhaps attempting to be encouraging, in his own way, by reminding her of their obligation to the Entity. 

“A _job_?” Apparently, this was not what she wanted to hear because Amanda looked at him with incredulous contempt. “You can’t actually be that stupid.” 

The Pig continued in a sober tone. “What we do in this place, it’s not _work_ , Evan. It’s all a fucking game.”

Her voice was soft again, but the words impactful. “A game no one ever wins.” 

The silence that followed the statement was heavy, weighted by the existential horror of the implications. 

Michael Myers never really stopped to think about the philosophical implications of the world he inhabited, not because he lacked the intellect, but rather because it didn’t matter to him. In fact, the thought that any killer would not want to be in the Entity’s realm was incredulously bizarre to him. 

The other world was a hindrance; he inadvertently would have had to go into hiding between murdering sprees or they would have imprisoned him again. 

Here, he was free to terrorize unopposed. 

The Entity even brought Laurie Strode for him to torment.

Amanda let out a soft chuckle before breaking the silence, her tone having alleviated. “I don’t remember much of when I first got here, it’s a blur, you know? Still, I remember you. You were more animal than man.”

The Trapper nodded at that, seeming pensive but not wallowing. He had been an empty, broken shell for a long time. “Hm. I guess I was.” 

She looked at him with a head tilt and a slight smirk. She was appreciative and there was an obvious shift in her previous morose mood.“I don’t know what it is, but you changed, you know? You’re still an uptight hard ass, but I feel like I can actually talk to you.” 

Had Evan Macmillan changed? He seemed the same to Michael, but perhaps his presence in Evan’s life was the change she was referring to. He didn’t know how he was before that; he didn’t care. 

Her words brought him to a new realization. He saw that she too was seeking some sort of peace through Evan. Unfortunately for the troubled woman pursuing friendship, he was not intending to share any facet of him with anyone. His curious and voyeuristic nature got the best of him but he allowed this to go on long enough. 

The Shape came out of hiding, choosing to stand afar but directly in the sight line of The Pig. He made not a sound, but one could feel a shift in the atmosphere as his killing intent amplified. The light gleamed off his knife meaningfully, wanting to draw attention. 

It worked; both Amanda and Evan looked up at him with mixed reactions. One horrified, the other indulgent. 

With an audible gasp at the sudden frightening sight of him, The Pig drew her retractable blade. She hissed through gritted teeth. “Jesus, it’s that fucking creep. How long has he been there?” 

Michael couldn’t be any more indifferent to her insults if he tried but the words seem to bother The Trapper, despite trying to pretend otherwise. He had been watching Evan long enough by now that he could recognize the changes in his demeanor. The brutish man’s jaw tightened and his shoulders squared, like he wanted to violently lash out in his defense but he was restraining himself. This made him feel oddly pleased. 

Evan glared in her direction before he tersely grumbled. “He’s not here for you.” He turned to leave shortly after, not wanting to have to explain any further. He threw a fleeting glance over to Michael’s looming form and in a subtle beckoning, cocked his chin in the direction of the exit. 

Amanda looked at The Trapper’s retreating figure and did not understand his irate reaction. She didn’t know about their relationship and it’s certainly not something she could have guessed before this very moment. 

She did feel that killing intent though and so she mumbled, mainly to herself. “I’m not so sure about that.”

But when she turned her gaze back, The Shape was nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like Amanda Young and she was little more than a foot note in my last story.  
> Wanted to give her a bit more love.  
> (Next chapter will be much more Trapper/Mikey boi centered, no worries ) 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you guys are enjoying that double blood point weekend!  
> Comments are suggestions are always welcomed. :)


	3. Chapter 3

The Trapper’s heavy, echoing footsteps in the mainly empty meat plant would have inspired terror in the hearts of the survivors, but it was a welcomed beacon to The Shape. They were so loud, so very _Evan_ , that Michael wouldn’t even need to see him to silently trail him out of the building. When the other gestured for him to follow, he felt such anticipation that he quickly disregarded his rancor towards the hapless Amanda. She was safe, for now. 

The scarred man stopped walking once he breached the large industrial doors leading outside, which were similar to the ones their victims needed to power to escape their trials, save for the fact that they always remained opened for killers. The Shape did not follow him out; he stopped in his track at the same time as him. He stood there, visible but perfectly still, before slowly tilting his head. Waiting for Evan’s next move. 

In the darkness of the Entity’s eternal night, Evan turned to face him, his figure lightly illuminated by the fluorescent lights pouring out of the opened doors. There was a short, tense moment as both men silently measured each other. After all, they were inherently dangerous and volatile; especially Michael. The threat of an eruption of violence always lurked around the corner, like an axe ready to fall. 

Not right now, though. 

The Trapper sighed slightly, seemingly exasperated at the whole situation, before calling out in his deep, booming voice. “Come by later, boy.” One could tell, if they knew him as much as Michael did, that there was no real bite in his outwardly intimidating tenor. 

After a beat, like an afterthought, he added in an authoritative tone with his arms crossed over his chest. “… And bring me back my things.” 

Michael was glad for the formal invitation, but petulantly, he would much rather keep all the mementos he collected from the man. He had them neatly stored away, close to Judith’s. It would be grand to be able to gaze upon the tombstone of his murdered sister while holding the other’s mask whenever he liked. Still; cold, inanimate objects paled in comparison to the real thing. As greedy as he was, he would have to make some compromises. For now. 

So he slowly nodded once, in agreement. 

The Trapper nodded back before heading out into the chilling, thick fog that mysteriously connected all realms.

Michael remained where he was, eyes intensely focused on the retreating figure. His own large, intimidating frame would appear cold and unaffected to an onlooker but he felt the corners of his lips twitch up beneath his mask. 

Evan had called him “boy” again. 

…

 

Michael Myers felt playful. 

Having insidiously sneaked his way inside The Trapper’s shed, he was standing a few feet behind his turned back, still undetected. He had kept his breathing quiet and subtle, seeking to surprise more so than usual. The moment Evan would turn around, the sight of his very own mask staring back at him would greet him. Wanting to be mischievous, The Shape had decided to wear it over his. 

His peculiar sense of humor had worked well on The Trapper in the past, after all. 

Lacking his original mask, Evan was currently wearing the beastly one with the antlers woven around his skull. Sometimes Michael found it mystifying that the man was able to handcraft such intricacies despite appearing so brutally unrefined. Then again, The Shape’s own victims were always stupefied that he could get the drop on them despite his hulking frame. Wanting his presence known now, he allowed his breathing to get heavier; loud enough to be heard through the extra layer on his face. 

Having finally noticed the lurking presence, the older killer turned his head to look behind him. 

The Trapper blinked once at the sight of him, initially startled by his disguise, before letting out an amused snort. He walked over, stopping just inches away, and shook his head in disbelief. From this proximity, his grin was evident even beneath the iron mask that only partially covered his features. He good-humoredly reprimanded him. “You’re a damned brat, you know that?” 

Of course Michael knew, but he innocently tilted his head at him in mock ignorance. 

Evan tsked at him once before he lifted his large hand and slowly reached for his grinning mask. He was surprisingly gentle in grasping its cracked edges and slipping it off Michael, as if he didn’t want to disturb the latex underneath with his motion. 

The Trapper was often gentle when it came to his blank mask since that first time he tore it off him. Before he understood what it meant. 

In good faith, The Shape also emptied his pockets and handed over the items he had stolen. It consisted of a pair of pliers, a pair of cutters along with a single, worn-down padded leather protective glove. The Trapper grabbed the tools with a small, appreciative grunt but did not take his glove back, instead gestured vaguely for him to have it. It appeared that he got to keep at least one memento, much to his delight. 

Now that Evan had his own pliers back, Myers thought about volunteering to bring the borrowed ones back to Amanda Young. He could easily stroll in while she was there without alerting her of his presence. She would only notice the new additions he would leave at her factory. He wanted to simply place the tool back where it belonged… that, along with a disemboweled rabbit as a meaningful souvenir from he to her. 

Michael got pulled out of his reveries by the feel of Evan’s calloused hand over his, soundlessly requesting that his knife be handed over. 

Ah, this again. Like in the beginning. 

It made sense. He did try to kill him twice, after all. 

Succeeded one time too many. 

Michael voluntarily complied and The Trapper turned to his worktable with the items he collected. He dropped the pliers and the confiscated blade on the wooded surface and placed his mask back on his rack. It rested there, grinning and bone coloured, centered amongst the many others. He quietly hummed once as he admired it, not saying anything but visibly glad to have it back. 

Myers now expected him to put his weapon out of reach but instead Evan moved aside the traps he was working on. He placed the kitchen knife in their stead before taking out an iridescent whetstone from a drawer. He ran his thumb over the blade, as if testing it, before sliding the knife over the stone in meticulous but quick, repetitive motions. He occasionally stopped to run his fingers over the cruel edge before resuming his work. There was something rhythmically mesmerizing about watching the muscle flexing from the exertion and the scraping sound of grinding metal. 

The Shape tilted his head curiously, peeking over the man’s shoulder. Evan seemed to pay him no mind for he was laboring away on his knife with the same focus he reserved for his traps. After he was finally satisfied with the finished result, he returned the weapon and Michael took it without understanding. 

The Trapper explained, perceiving the other’s hesitance. “It got dull.” His tone was gruff, as if he was scorning him, but that didn’t match the gentleness in which he handed the blade back. “You need to take better care of your things, boy.” 

Michael was perplexed. 

What was this gesture? There was kindness in it. 

The Shape stared down at his gleaming knife, fascinated by how sharp and lethal it looked after Evan’s care. The other hadn’t taken the weapon because he didn’t trust him with it; he wanted to hone the blade for him to an even deadlier degree. It was a considerate attention and Michael actually felt something positive stir inside him. 

He eventually comprehended that he was moved by what Evan had done. 

No one had ever done something that made him happy before. 

Myers felt a hand on his shoulder and he glanced back up to The Trapper who was staring back at him with intensity. “Don’t use it on me again.” Macmillan’s deep voice was stern because he was serious, but not angry any longer. 

The Shape didn’t nod in agreement; he didn’t need to. Their eyes had locked and the older man knew that his words were heard. 

After an amiable squeeze, Evan let him go and turned to resume his work on the project he had started before his arrival. He had a strangely ashen-smelling mixture that he was layering on his traps; dyeing them black as burned timber. This made it harder for his victims to notice them as they treaded in the night. Michael unobtrusively leaned against the workbench next to him, watching. 

The Trapper was keeping busy as usual and The Shape silently loitered by. 

Back to how things were. How they should be. 

Michael Myers remained still, taking in the smells and the reverberations distinctive to the Macmillan estate and it’s owner. He dared not move for he felt the tranquility of soundlessness flow through him anew. Not tormented by his affliction any longer; it was just he and Evan. 

Who knows how much time passed before their confortable silence was broken by his lover’s voice? He had apparently finished what he was doing and was side glancing at him. “You missed me, boy?” 

The Shape stared at him blankly for a moment. 

What a stupid question. 

He ought to not even respond, the answer was so obvious. Still, because it was Evan and he was in a good mood, he could humor him. He nodded yes. 

The Trapper let out a small, pleased sound in response before wiping the grime off his hands. Dropping the used cloth on the bench, he turned towards him now. “So did I.” His voice was quiet; the grumble of a man that was not accustomed to verbally expressing his affection. 

Evan had that voracious glint in his eyes as he placed both arms on either side of his body, cornering Michael between himself and the hard surface of the worktable he was leaning against. While shamelessly pressing his thigh between his parted legs, he tilted his head towards his ear to whisper in that gravelly tone that drove him wild. “Want daddy to show you how much? ” 

Michael let out a tremulous breath despite himself before nodding yes. 

 

…

 

All was right again.

It had been just a short while since their reconciliation and The Shape had already regained his usual prowess during his trials. The hunt was a bloodbath, which pleased the Entity, but the mute killer didn’t care for Its approval. He much preferred The Trapper’s lustful praises and so he headed over to earn them. 

Michael noticed that something felt off in the Macmillan estate as soon as he crossed the fog and set foot on the dark and misty ground. There was a different energy present; something buzzing that set his nerves alight. Attentive and wary, he treaded carefully as he ventured closer to the killer’s shack and quickly surmised that the source of the disturbance came from inside. The vague buzzing materialized into faint electric waves that were pulsating up from the dirt to the very tips of the dark blades of grass. It was prickling the soles of his feet even through his boots.

He was close enough now to catch the tail end of a conversation, the distinctive voice of another recognizable right away despite the rare times he’s heard it. 

“-… Happy to hear that it all resolved itself, Evan.” 

The Doctor. 

Michael Myers felt detached indifference towards almost all of the other killers that dwelled in the Entity’s realm. Nonetheless, he had an instinctual aversion to Herman Carter from the get-go. Perhaps it was because the deranged man claimed to be a psychiatrist prior to his descent into the fog but he wanted to have as little interactions with him as possible. 

To find him here conversing with The Trapper was an unpleasant surprise, to say the least. 

The Shape was standing some ways off to not be sighted while having a vantage point from the window. He saw the men together in the workshop, their physical proximity and casual dialogue implying that they were close acquaintances. Perhaps even friends. Amanda Young was not the only other killer Evan spent his time with. The realization awoke a base possessiveness inside him. 

Herman Carter continued his train of thought “-… I would simply hate to see you get hurt by a relationship I helped coagulate with my insightful guidance.” He outwardly sounded like a concerned comrade but there was some self-satisfaction in his words. As if he was trying to remind Evan of what he had allegedly done for him. 

But what did that even mean? What did this man have to do with The Trapper and him? 

The Shape tried to stay calm and consider the implications.

This appeared to be indicating that Herman was some sort of confidant. It seemed that he was someone The Trapper would seek for advice. The man should know better than to trust a psychiatrist, if you asked Michael. No matter how much they pretended they wanted to help, he was never foolish enough to believe them, even as a child. 

The Trapper seemed to understand the allusion and threw him a warning scowl, his tone curt. “Don’t be cute, Carter. ” 

Their bond seemed unconventional, as if there was some strong animosity between them despite appearing to be rather close. Michael wasn’t sure how to interpret it, not yet. 

The Doctor gasped lightly, placing a hand over his chest as if wounded by the words. “Surely you don’t doubt my sincerity after all this time? ” 

Evan did not seem to fall for the charade and his quip came easy. “I don’t doubt your sadism for damn sure.” 

The false hurt disappeared instantly and was replaced with a sharp grin and gleaming, knowing eyes. “Oh?” His tone changed drastically too; it was laced with menace. “You are smarter than you look, after all.” He chuckled then, a haunting sound that echoed in the shack. 

The Doctor practically cooed at him now, leaning a bit closer to his ear as if he was letting him in on a secret. “And yet, you always come to me when you feel loss, don’t you? ”

Michael’s blood turned cold at the sight. There had been no physical contact between them, nothing that seemed inappropriate at first glance. There didn’t need to be something as obvious as that for Michael’s watchful eyes. It was the way the Doctor leered at Evan as he purred out the words; the intent was palpable. 

Like he wanted to devour him. 

The Trapper scoffed in response and sounded hostile in his reply, hating the implication of weakness. “Don’t worry, I won’t next time.” He stood in his over-assertive fashion with his eyes narrowed and arms crossed. As if he was in control. As if he wasn’t a delectable prey to The Doctor. 

Herman cackled horribly at that, its mad and jarring sound enraging. Once his laughter stopped, he smirked with a tilt of his head. “Hm. No, of course not.” He looked so insufferably pleased and patronizing, as if he heard this declaration hundreds of times. 

The Trapper glared menacingly at him but said nothing else. He knew that further reply would simply embolden The Doctor. 

Michael tightened his grip on his knife and felt the steadily increasing droning of the white noise in his head. Or perhaps it was the electricity that circled his feet, pulsating through him? He couldn’t be sure of anything other than the loathing he felt towards this interloper unwittingly taunting him. 

The Shape could have sworn that Herman’s eerily wide eyes fleetingly glanced in his general direction, as if he was aware of his presence. It was only for a moment before he turned his full attention back to The Trapper. “Well now, as delightful as this little visit was, I really should be on my way.” He spoke in a jaunty, almost singsong tone as he clasped his hands together. 

There was none of the previous arrogance or cruelty; he seemed genuinely well intended now. “Of course, you are busy with your affairs and your tinkering, but remember my office is always open for you.” Before turning to leave, The Doctor patted his scarred shoulder once, as a farewell. 

Michael Myers felt bile rise in his throat at the sight and considered leaping through the window and chopping off his hand for the sheer audacity. 

Evan didn’t flinch at the touch; he instead grunted a vague goodbye as he watched The Doctor’s retreating form exiting his home and head into the eternal night, towards his own realm. He then turned back towards his worktable to tamper with whatever contraption laid there, as if nothing had happened. This was somehow more maddening than anything else. 

Did The Trapper actually not notice? Michael held the man in high esteem, seeing him as the epitome of experience when it came to relations. Yet, impossibly, he seemed completely oblivious in this situation. 

This was absurd. 

The Shape hastily left the estate before his killing intent became too strong and perceptible. 

He stormed away in that fast, decisive gait usually reserved for the return of a particularity successful hunt. He clenched his fists with such force that his knuckles turned white and his blunt nails dug in his palm. He couldn’t notice any pain though; the ugly, jealous rage that had building up inside him obscured all else. It was powerful and vicious, like his evil within, but somehow worse. It felt black, thick and insidious, like slithering tar tendrils. It gurgled from deep inside him, crawling up his esophagus; chocking him. It was coupled with the white noise that became impossibly strident and deafening. 

It was so loud. 

Loud like in the asylum.

Loud like before Judith’s murder. 

He needed to go pay the good doctor a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, a little bit of sweet fluff to make up for all the angst in the last chapter. 
> 
> ~~Honestly, guys, I'm really happy to have The Doctor back in the picture.~~
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed, suggestions and comments are always welcomed.


	4. Chapter 4

During certain trials, Michael Myers made the dark and confusing layouts of Lery’s Memorial institute one of his most fatal haunting grounds. When he brought the right offering and focused properly, he became exceptionally stealthy and deadly there. Hiding around corners with an intense concentration that allowed him to sense his preys, he would silently wait in ambush to surprise and attack. There was nowhere to hide from him. His presence always induced dread among the survivors but it turned into utter terror and hopelessness with a scratched mirror and these halls.

It was not the case this time around. As soon as The Shape arrived at the institute, armed with only his knife and his rage, his senses were flooded with a foreboding feeling of unease. Perhaps it was because its true owner inhabited this realm but the hospital beds and antiseptic smells brought forth unpleasant memories of his incarceration. There were no victims to distract him from it. 

Quite inexplicably, faint flashbacks danced across his mind. 

Of him, as a child, staring up at the dark ceiling for yet another sleepless night, cradled by the screams of the other inmates. 

Of him, as a teenager, restrained out of formality as he was transported for another useless therapy session. 

Of him, as a young adult, overhearing Dr. Loomis adamantly insist on upmost security for the night he will be escorted to court for his final trial. 

The Shape ignored these and pushed on with the resolve of a hound following a blood trail. The hospital was a bit different during trials, however the layout was similar enough for him to easily find the Doctor’s office despite having never stepped foot in it.

Michael stood in the doorway and scanned the empty room, taking in the oddly sophisticated décor with curious detachment. Red velvet chairs, Turkish carpeting and ornate chess set clashed with the grimy esthetics of the other desolate rooms as well as the smell of blood and electricity that wafted in the halls. 

As he entered the office, his eyes darted to the shelves around the vacant desk lined with various books and files. He planned on taking advantage of The Doctor’s absence by rummaging through his things and getting familiar with his surroundings. The desk along with its archives was the most logical place to start. 

He saw it then, a leather bound notebook next to a file with the name ‘Evan Macmillan’ printed on it’s front. It was atop of the polished oak surface among other paperwork, as if it had just recently been worked on. As if it was just left there for him to find. There was a sinking feeling of possessiveness in his gut at the sight. Disgusted over the idea that another man was observing The Trapper and keeping tabs. 

Still curious in nature despite his revulsion, he ran his fingers over the file, sensing faint electricity tingling his skin in the process. Just as he was about to open it, he was interrupted by a stern and ominous voice. 

“You shouldn’t be here, Myers.” 

The startled Michael drew his weapon, alert, and looked behind him in the direction of the voice. Astoundingly, he had not sensed Herman Carter enter the room. The other killer was meticulous in his approach; it seemed, in a way that may rival his own stealth. 

The later was standing in the doorway with his arms folded behind his back, with his unnervingly pried eyes focused on the intruder. His sparkling metal rod was hoisted on his belt, ready for use if need be, but he seemed to be focusing his energy on passively emitting waves of electricity into the office instead. 

Michael gripped his knife solidly, eyes trained on the Doctor, ready for a fight. He came here to confront him, after all. 

This did not seem to alarm Herman in the least for he walked assertively inside, as if it were nothing. He was continuing his admonishment with the same scorn and haughtiness. “I’m not referring to you invading my home and infringing on my privacy. That goes without saying.” 

He circled Michael with predatory intensity, keeping only an arm’s length of distance between them. He was sufficiently close for intimidation, but far enough away to react defensively in case of a sudden attack from the masked killer.

The Doctor finally stopped walking once he reached his desk, on opposite side of where Michael stood, with the furniture separating them. They made eye contact as he spoke and the promise of torment in his threatening tone was unmistakable. “I mean that _you_ shouldn’t be here with _me_. It will not end well for you.” 

A tense silence followed but Michael Myers was not a man that could be intimidated easily and so he remained stoically still. His breathing was steady, his eyes glaring into the unnaturally reddened ones before him. 

The tension was suddenly lifted by a sigh and an amused head-shake from Herman. His demeanor drastically changed to a more indulgent one and he spoke calmly now, with the goodwill of a schoolteacher lecturing a child. “You saw me with Evan and want an explanation.” He smiled then, a patronizing and mocking thing. “I am gracious enough to give you one if it can appease you, despite the fact that I owe you nothing.”

The Shape decided he would be permissive in return and listen, despite also owning him nothing. 

Carter spoke nonchalantly and with forthrightness.“You see, we spend time together and chat on occasion. Evan is grateful to me because I helped him come to terms with his repressed homosexuality. I also gave him advice on how to approach you.” He pointed at Michael now, eyes narrowed challengingly. “So, you, of all people, should actually be thankful of my presence in his life.”

The Doctor had also alluded to this back in the Macmillan estate and Michael hated the sense of entitlement he was deriving from it. 

What part did this insufferable man play in his getting together with The Trapper?

Evan never spoke of it and it irked him.

If Carter sensed his annoyance, he made no show of it. He considered him with uncharacteristic benevolence and spoke with a humanity that was ill fitted for a renowned sadist. “Evan thinks the world of you, and I am quite fond of him, therefore I will give you a chance to leave and I’ll just forgive this infraction.”

Michael stared blankly at him for a moment before slowly tilting his head in quiet incredulity. It was honestly insulting to think that this man presumed he would fall for such blatant deception. That he would somehow be appeased with platitudes. 

The Doctor immediately understood that he was not going to leave and his eyes gleamed disconcertingly in response. As if it was what he had wanted all along. He practically buzzed, entirely too pleased. “Very well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Herman motioned to the red, plush chair in front of his desk in an invitation for his visitor to sit, which Michael obviously ignored. He stood tall, knife in hand, breathing loud and the sight should have inspired fear but the other killer simply shrugged and took his own seat. 

The Doctor leaned back in his chair comfortably before he began speaking again, unprompted. He wasn’t even really looking at the other, just absently staring off as if pondering. 

“Evan didn’t want to be here serving the Entity originally. He never would have left his father behind. That much should be obvious even to one as unobservant as you. He was tortured into submission.” He smiled eerily, the notion delightful to him. “I’m sure it was quite the sight.” 

Michael wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but he couldn’t help paying attention to the words because they were about the only man he cherished. 

He wished he could tell himself he already knew. 

The truth was he never stopped to think about where The Trapper got those deep gashes all over his body. 

The Doctor gestured towards his grotesque face and the metal apparatus that he had unclasped for their chat. “Me, well, this may come as a shock to you, but I wasn’t always like this either.” He chuckled once and spoke airily, shaking his head, amused. “The Entity seems to enjoy torture almost as much as I do. But I digress …” 

Herman resumed his speech with the enthusiasm of an academic explaining his thesis and seemed eager to be able to share, even with a layman. “Are you familiar with the notion of nature versus nurture? I’m suggesting that the man known as The Trapper became who he became out of conditioning. A taste for brutality developed by the strong hand of his father and the cruel claws of The Entity.”

He pointed between Michael and himself. “Evan, he’s not like us.” He looked at him meaningfully, as if was he was referring to were evident, then added in clarification. “Psychopaths.” 

He unnecessarily paused to make sure his audience was following. From the haughtiness one could easily tell he wasn’t doing it out of concern. “You’re acquainted with that word, correct? I’m sure they diagnosed you.”

Michael was and they did. None of this was hard to follow. 

Satisfied that he understood, he resumed his pompous speech. “Well, to say that we are alike because of that would be a gross generalization. I am a highly functional psychopath and you …” He glanced uninterestingly at him, waving his hand dismissively in his general direction. “…are little more than an invalid. ” 

Michael knew what The Doctor was doing and the appropriate reaction should be total indifference. His intellect had been disregarded his entire life by staff of the sanitarium due to his uncommunicativeness and it had never bothered him. He never cared what anyone thought because he never cared about anyone. 

Yet … he felt irritated. Why? 

That uncanny voice was getting under his skin. 

So was that condescending tone. 

There was also the buzzing in his skin, the waves of electricity pulsating from the ground all the way from the soles of his feet to the top of his skull. Had it been there all along? It must have been but it felt more penetrating somehow. As if the voltage had been progressively increased. 

The Doctor cradled his chin in his hand and regarded him for a beat before begrudgingly conceding, as if he knew what he had been thinking. “You’re not _unintelligent_ , mind you. I can tell.” 

He beamed then and spoke with complete self-assurance. Not bragging, just stating facts. “But I am smarter than you. Don’t feel bad; I’m smarter than most.” 

Herman straightened in his seat and joined his hands on the surface of this desk, his demeanor morphing to a more serious one. “The functional part, that’s a rather significant difference. You see, we both inherently enjoy hurting others and lack the ability to empathize with their suffering, but I, unlike you, am able to hide it when necessary.”

With glinting eyes, he explained smugly. “There’s finesse in manipulation that you will never master. I know when to be cruel and I know when to be kind. I know how far I can push to have them coming back despite themselves. It’s very useful. It’s helped me outside of this realm and it’s still serving me now.” 

He then looked at the younger man as if he was a contemptible thing, his tone laced with pity. “You can’t even pretend, can you?” 

Michael learned that very moment that he despised being pitied. 

The Doctor tilted his head and asked, although he already knew the answer. “You’re in your early twenties, correct?” 

He snorted, mockingly. “By your age, I was already leading experimental research in my field in a covert government facility. By your age, Evan was running a highly prosperous estate along side his father.”

He gazed penetratingly at him as he spoke with disdain, looking to drive home the point. “Before coming here, you were simply a burden upon society. The pinnacle of your accomplishment was to become an escaped maniac and terrorize teenagers.”

Michael was trying to remind himself that this was irrelevant, especially now, in this realm. He wasn’t a fool. Of course he knew he wasn’t well adjusted. That’s why they locked him in Smith’s Grove. He was never meant to be a functional part of society and he never would have wanted to be to begin with. 

He only had murder in mind and it had been easy. 

Then came Evan Macmillan. He cared about Evan. Evan was his. 

Evan surely didn’t mind his lack of worldly experiences. 

So then, what was this self-doubt? Why was the ridicule getting to him? 

There was incessant buzzing in his ears and in his flesh. He was starting to feel dizzy. Loosing focus. 

Herman Carter sighed once, as if exasperated by the other’s apparent inferiority.  
“You’re good at stalking and killing. That’s about it, isn’t it?” 

He smirked cruelly, eyes dancing over his body implicitly. “Although, I suppose you must be good for one more thing to be keeping Evan’s interest despite your complete lack of personality.” 

The Shape didn’t feel objectified by the gaze despite the lewd implication that accompanied it. He felt dissected. 

The Doctor contemplated him as he would one of his subjects. He seemed pensive, regretful even. “I wish you could have been in my care, back in Lery’s. The progress I would have done with you. I hear you are extremely tolerant to pain, so our sessions could have lasted hours.” He smiled nastily. Rapaciously. “Believe me, everyone has a breaking point.” 

Soon, his face fell and his tone became matter-a-fact, as if he was bored with him once again. “You are not special, Myers. That fool Dr. Loomis was simply too incompetent to successfully crack open your mind and he decided to call you evil out of sheer laziness.”

Michael was grateful for his mask because he felt his flesh face twitch in response to hearing the name of his psychiatrist. How did The Doctor even know about Loomis? Actually, how did he know so much about his past?

Perhaps there was a subtle change in his body language, or Carter was incredibly gifted at reading minds, because he caught on to his discomposure right away and perked up. “Oh? You didn’t know I knew about Loomis?” 

The Doctor drummed his fingers together in delight, electricity dancing across the digits. “Yes, Michael Audrey Myers, I know all about him. As you can plainly see, I know all about you, too… Not that there is much to you to begin with. You came here with the Strode girl, after all.” 

He grinned wolfishly “I can see why you like her so much; she was a delight to break. The strong ones always are. I was able to gather the details Evan rather not share.” 

A surge of possessiveness hit Michael.

No. Laurie was his.

And so was Evan. 

That’s right, he came to Lery’s because of him. 

Had he already forgotten why he came here?

He gripped his blade tighter in an attempt to ground himself. He felt the tingling in his palm from the electric current that seemed to be embedded in the wooded handle. The maddening static field was everywhere. 

The young man glanced down at the desk again, needed to focus. Needing to look away from that penetrating gaze deconstructing him. Why was he even listening to all of this rubbish? It was about Evan. His eyes honed on the file he had spotted earlier.

The Doctor followed his gaze. “I see you have Evan Macmillan’s file at hand.” He slid the folder and the notebook towards him. “Go on, you can open it. Or are you illiterate? Did they even bother to teach you to read in the asylum?” He cackled unkindly at that and the jarring, eerie sound of that laughter grated Michael’s senses. 

Ignoring the blatant taunting, Michael opened the file and began reading the calligraphic words. Or at least, he attempted to. It all seemed off and he couldn’t make out anything. His frown was hidden beneath his blank mask as confusion took hold of him. Was the static jumbling his senses? 

“Oh, so you were taught.” He giggled, amused at his little farce, before resuming with that insufferable cockiness. “Not that it will do you any good, considering I use a cypher. A bit of a habit I picked up while working on highly classified government interrogations.” 

The Shape gritted his teeth then, frustrated. Of course this was just another ploy to torment him. He dropped the folder on the desk and picked up the notebook. He opened it, flipping through the manuscript. It was all coded too but he still wanted to see for himself. 

The Doctor gestured towards the other archives in his shelves, presenting his labor with pride. “In case you are wondering, I have files on everyone here. Thankfully, the majority are rather fascinating cases that can occupy my idle mind despite the rather limited list of available subjects...” 

Michael was not listening to his droning for he was still flipping through the pages. His eyes fell upon some rather detailed sketches of various implements with coded instructions he could not decipher. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at but a sinking feeling of dread grew inside him. 

They looked like tools of torture of sorts; a metal ring that served as a gag, forcing a mouth open. Hand bindings fastened to a collar, restricting movement. He was still rather inexperienced sexually but he still understood what the apparatus illustrated were meant for. 

The Doctor was watching him avidly and one would think he had just been waiting for this discovery. He placed a hand on the Trapper’s folder and lowered his voice, as if letting Michael in on a juicy secret. “… But Evan, oh, he’s my _favourite_.” 

Shudders ran up Michael’s spine. He knew. Of course he knew. But to hear it was something else. 

The sadist cooed at him, savoring his uneasiness. “But, you already know that.” His shrewd smirk was infuriating in its boldness. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” 

A wave of nausea hit The Shape and he felt his thoughts unravel with paranoia. How long had this man been lurking around The Trapper with these intentions? Had he already tried something? 

Herman rolled his eyes at Michael’s panic, once again sensing his thoughts. The psychiatrist seemed offended, which was most ironic considering the verbal abuse he administered. He practically spat. “Do you think I would debase myself by trying something inappropriate while you two are an item? Don’t be ridiculous.” After the small outburst, he caught himself, leveling his tone. “I am a very patient man and we have nothing but time in this eternal limbo.” 

He leaned back in his chair, elbow casually on the armrest and as he propped his chin in his palm. “You know the most amusing part in all this?” He was smirking again, victoriously. “I will not even need to do anything. You won’t be able to help yourself and you will sabotage your happiness because that’s what an irreparably corrupted mind like yours does.”

Michael stared at him disbelievingly, fist clenched in quiet rage. 

Content with the undivided attention, Herman continued. “You will squander it all.” His words were unwavering, with the assurance of a prophet. “ You will push him to the breaking point and he will leave.” 

Those words felt like a punch to the gut because of how right they sounded. 

Evan could leave. 

Their fight replayed in his mind over and over, uncontrollably.

It was incredibly vivid yet distorted by static, like some fever dream. 

Michael felt ill.

Carter pursed his lips and spoke in mock sympathy. “What will you do to then, I wonder? Attempt to force him to stay with violence?” A small giggle escaped him. “My poor boy, there are things that can’t be fixed with a knife.” 

Heaving now, he glowered at Herman murderously. This exchange was something that could be fixed with a knife. 

The Doctor must have known the man before him was instants away from tearing him apart. The bloodlust was so overpowering, nonetheless he kept on, unperturbed. He had conviction that, as a passerby cannot help but watch the burning inferno of a crash, Michael would keep listening to the end. 

He spoke surely. Clairvoyantly. “Evan will be devastated, of course. However, he will put on a brave front, as he always does. Hide his pain behind his mask, his viciousness and his traps.”

He smiled with a small shrug. “And yet, he will still come to me, as he always does.” 

Herman spoke with his academic enthusiasm, ecstatic to be able to share, despite his audience’s horror. Or rather, more accurately, because of it. 

“I have plans for our dear Evan. There’s so much potential in him. A man meant to be destroyed and rebuild. He has a distinct pattern that I’m not even sure he is aware of despite its simplicity." He was gesturing emphatically along with his words. "You see, his father broke him and he became his zealous enforcer. Then the Entity broke him and he became Its obedient slave.” 

He looked penetratingly into the eyes of the younger killer. “Lastly, I will break him.” He moistened his lips for dramatic effect and sighed the next part. “And he will be mine to do as I please.” 

Graphic images flashed in Michael’s mind despite himself, pulsating like the electricity that was numbing him. They were of The Trapper in the claws of the sadistic man before him. The strong, domineering monster of a man was on his knees. He was wrecked and bound. Bent over with teeth gritted, trying so hard to hold back his voice. Trying to keep himself from imploring for something. For what? For it to end or for release?

The utter smugness that followed was despicable. It was the arrogance of a man that had already won. “So now that you know, what are you going to do about it, Myers?” His eyes shined maliciously. “ _Tell_ him?” 

The Doctor’s boisterous laugh mocking him was the worst thing Michael had ever heard. It was so jarring. So loud. So inhuman. 

Michael must have flipped the entire desk aside to get to him, as if the heavy oak weighted nothing at all. It happened so fast, he can’t recall. 

His freshly sharpened knife pierced the dark flesh as if it were butter and the blood splattered grandiosely but that laughter didn’t subside. He stabbed until there was no throat left, until The Doctor’s head was hanging by his spine alone for the flesh was too destroyed. How was he still laughing, then? 

He dropped the ruined corpse and stumbled out of the office, drenched in fresh blood, with his knife in one hand and the incriminating notebook in the other. 

The Shape thought he felt the Entity’s rumbling disapproval at his slaughtering of another one of Its pets, however it was muted by the electric buzzing, by the laughter, by the white noise. 

He was too consumed, too disheartened in himself. How did it take him so long to kill that man? How could he have allowed this one sided conversation to go on as long as it did? Those too true words, those disgusting images; they wouldn’t be haunting him had he just gone ahead and slain Herman as he originally intended. 

Did he get confused? He must have and he must still be. Michael can still see Herman tauntingly standing there as he walks down the hallway towards the exit, despite being soaked in gore, evidence of his demise. He drew his bloodied blade and stabbed at the Doctor but there was nothing but emptiness there as the form of him flickered away. 

This confusion, it must have had something to do with that maddening spark pulsing through him. Its effects were still lingering.

Why else would he still be hearing the Doctor’s hideous cackle along with the deafening white noise?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael Audrey Myers; Murdered by words.
> 
> Poor boy didn't know what he was getting himself into. :0
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Suggestions and comments are always welcomed.


	5. Chapter 5

_Evan,_

_Evan,_

_Evan,_

_Evan,_

_Evan,_

Michael kept repeating the name over and over in his mind, like a mantra, trying to get his bearings. Trying to reclaim what little sanity he had to begin with. The lingering effects of Carter’s spark was still setting his nerves alight, his body twitching involuntarily. Sporadically, he would hear a jarring cackle and he clutched his head as he shook it frantically. Trying to snap out of it. 

He felt the inexplicable urge to scream but after fifteen years of silence, perhaps he had forgotten how. 

The Shape looked particularly frightening caked in fresh gore, walking decisively with his bloodied weapon in hand. He wasn’t consciously aware of where his feet were taking him. He only knew that he needed to see The Trapper to remind himself that he was still there and he was still his. Then the noise and the horrible laugher would finally stop.

Muscle memory carried him in the direction of the Macmillan estate. 

As soon as his boots treaded on the dark and foggy grass of The Trapper’s realm, he felt slightly comforted. He could already feel the veteran killer’s presence and he atypically walked straight over to his shack without bothering to sneak up to observe him first. 

The sight of Evan Macmillan’s broad back was a welcomed one and he just wanted to wrap his arms around him from behind and hold him tight. Sadly, the latter hadn’t even noticed him standing in the open doorway. He was busy gathering his best setting tool and his trusty bag before turning towards the ominous black fog that was inking its way into his home. His large figure was engulfed in the fog as he entered the void without further ado. 

In his haste, Michael hadn’t even noticed the unmistakable presence of The Entity beaconing Its faithful servant and he felt his heart drop upon the realization. 

The Trapper was heading to a trial, which meant he wouldn’t see him for a while. It also meant The Entity wouldn’t bother to send The Shape on his own hunt anytime soon. No Evan and no killing. He would be stuck with the noise and the madness without relief.

No.

Michael Myers was a force to be reckoned with and a man of single-minded determination, so it was no wonder he marched forward without hesitation and forced himself into the black fog behind the other killer. 

The Shape was met with resistance. 

The cold and black fog that usually engulfed and smoothly transported the killers to their hunting ground felt thick and unwavering this time. As if it knew he was an intruder. It was like walking through thick tar and his stride slowed impossibly so. This mild setback would not stop him and he kept on moving forward, unrelenting. 

What this fog consisted of no one was certain but it must have been a part of the Entity itself. How else would one explain the appearance of the claws that began tearing away at Michael’s flesh, trying to hold him back? 

He felt sharp appendages ruthlessly piercing through both shoulders and one of his thighs with a sickening sound and tugged. The young killer was also mindful of the many smaller tendrils grating and ripping into his chest, his hands, and his throat. They tore into the blank mask, partially exposing his face, but even that would not halt him. Blood must have been flowing copiously but he hardly felt it in his intense resolve. This insensibility to pain was his gift and he kept on. 

He was apparently the most stubborn out of the two unmovable forces. Abruptly, he felt himself expelled from the fog and was now mysteriously standing on top of a snowy hill. The stark contrast was dizzying and unexpected; it was as if the struggle hadn’t happened at all. 

Michael was mildly surprised to find himself completely regenerated, without any sign of the lacerations and punctures from his journey here. The effect of the Doctor’s madness was expunged and the bloodstains were gone. He gingerly touched his mask and felt it whole beneath his fingers. Good. 

It was like the start of a normal trial, save for the fact that the object of his passion was standing a couple of feet beside him. This meant he could both kill and be with The Trapper. He felt eagerness at the thought of the impending hunt.

Evan Macmillan, on his end, had no idea anything was amiss. He surveyed his surroundings, recognizing the Ormond hunting ground and was thinking of the best strategy to go about trapping the land. When he turned his head and saw the familiar presence besides him, he did a double take and the sheer absurdity of the situation would have been amusing to an onlooker. 

Incredulous at first, with his mouth comically agape, he stared silently at the trespasser. Slowly, as the initial shock faded, his demeanor warped into aggravation. He growled out, standing in front of him now with hands gesturing wildly in his disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

The Shape tilted his head, puzzled at the reaction. 

Wasn’t it obvious? He wanted to join him, so here he was. 

It must not have been so obvious because The Trapper forcefully grabbed the lapel of his coverall and harshly shook him once, visibly enraged. “You can’t be here!” He yanked him closer and hissed out through gritted teeth. “There are _rules_ , Michael.” 

Looked like he was not happy to see him.

Sullenly, Michael wished Evan would stop being so angry with him. He felt it’s been happening too much as of late and right now he really longed to be near him. With a quiet grunt, he defensively grabbed the arm shaking him, fingers painfully digging into the muscle in retaliation, wanting this unpleasantness to end. It was not how this was supposed to go. 

At a loss of what to do next, he stared into the eyes glaring at him and was stunned to find something in them he recognized all too well. He saw it often in his helpless victims. He had vainly looked for it while he killed him.

Fear.

This puzzled Michael but he figured he was clever enough to understand if he put his mind to it, despite of what that bastard Herman claimed. Empathy or not, he could still analyze. He thought back on how The Trapper reacted to most situations and he began to see a pattern. Seemed that hurt and fear triggered rage, like a deflection, because a proud man like him never admitted weakness. 

But now, what was there to be afraid of? 

His eyes traveled away from the intense, seething scowl and focused instead on the strong limbs holding him. Those hardened arms marred with scars that somehow never seemed to have fully healed. The scrap metal pieces cruelly impaled into his body like sick ornaments. The Doctor said that the Entity tortured him into submission.

Ah, so that was it. 

The Trapper was afraid of the Entity’s wrath. Of what It would do to them for deviating. 

In actually, it was not corporal punishment that Evan was most afraid of. He feared that breaking too many rules meant the eldritch monstrosity would somehow permanently separate them, through whatever sordid way It chose. Sadly, this notion was lost upon Michael, despite his best efforts at grasping sentiments. 

It didn’t matter; the wave of possessiveness that overtook the younger killer could hardly get any stronger even with that additional information. 

Michael would have told his lover that he had nothing to fear because there was no force in this whole forsaken universe that could get in his way. That Evan was his and therefore nothing or no one else would ever get to touch him again. Elder spider God be damned; It could tear Michael to pieces and cast the gory remains in the fiery pits of hell but he would always find his way back to him. 

However, feelings this extreme would be loss upon words. 

Instead, Michael lifted his knife in a stabbing motion and nodded his head towards the foggy and snow filled turf below them, crawling with four hidden potential victims. 

It was time to kill. 

As if to prove his point, the loud mechanical ping of a completed generator echoed in the distance. They had wasted enough time already.

The Trapper gaped at him in disbelief but conceded and finally released his hold, muttering gruffly. “Damnit, boy. Alright.” 

The older killer looked into the distance for a few seconds and seemed pensive, evaluating the situation and discerning of the best way to go about the whole ordeal. He walked to the edge of the hill, turning to look over his shoulder at Michael. “ I’m going to the lodge. You take the outskirts.” He then jumped off the small cliff and headed unfalteringly towards the building. 

Michael watched him for a brief moment before quickly and soundlessly disappearing into the white mist. It would ruin the fun if the preys figured out he were here too soon. 

…

Michael Myers was already notoriously sneaky and it took the survivors some time to be able to tell they were facing him even under normal circumstances. When suspicious of his presence, they would usually nervously peek over their shoulders as they toiled away on repairs, alert to the threat that he might be around the corner stalking them. 

This time they had spotted the bear traps in the snow and, knowing they were facing The Trapper, dropped their guards entirely to stealth. 

The Shape was free to observe them from the shadows, building up his evil for the right moment to strike. It had been so long since he got to catch someone truly off-guard and the prospect thrilled him. 

He would also get to see The Trapper in action and this thrilled him in a different way. 

The latter had taken some time to set up some bear traps in strategic positions but it was now time for him to start applying pressure on their preys. His methods were almost the exact opposite of Michael’s; his overwhelming presence could be felt from afar and his heavy, stomping feet alerted the survivors that he was heading over to them. 

What Michael noticed was that the veteran killer was using this as a means to scare them off generators and shepherded them to areas he had heavily trapped. 

The survivors in question were seasoned to the trials as well and came prepared. It seemed that they all had brought medical supplies, flashlights and toolboxes to help them along. They had actually completed three generators in total and as tempting as it was to yank an unsuspecting victim off the machinery, he wanted to bide his time a bit more.

Michael recognized them all and knew them well, despite not knowing their names. The team consisted of the shy healer, the reluctant leader, the cocky man with the prosthetic hand and the brash punk girl. 

On a normal trial, they probably would have been able to escape.

The Shape hid behind a wall on the outskirts and felt the flutter of voyeuristic thrill as he watched Evan chase the pink-haired girl armed with a flashlight. She had come in brashly to distract the killer away from a comrade he had injured. Surely the killer understood the ploy but he humored her into a pursuit regardless, though perhaps halfheartedly because he allowed her to run off. 

The girl was looking behind her as she turned the corner to make sure her pursuer hadn’t seen her sneak away during their chase. She should have watched where she was going. She ran straight into Michael’s hard, unmoving body and slowly glanced up with a frown, puzzled by the warmth for she clearly assumed she had run into a wall. It was a joy to watch the confusion turn into pure, abject terror as her eyes fell on his iconic white mask. 

Her shriek echoed in the winter land as he raised his blade and cold-bloodedly stabbed her to the ground in one shot. 

Michael did not bother to put her on a sacrificial hook; not yet, he had build up his killing intent and wanted to take it out on as many victims as he could while he still had the element of surprise.

Coming out from around the corner, he saw the figure of the overconfident, squared-jaw man that had been running in his direction to go help his fallen friend, no doubt. Judging by the way he cursed before turning around to bolt away, he hadn’t comprehended the gravity of the situation when he decided to come to her rescue. The Shape’s strides were sure and fast so it took him no time to catch up and strike him down as well. 

Michael then turned and noticed the injured man, with his glasses skewed on his face, who was crouched in the snow nearby behind some crates. He lifted his knife again and headed towards him now, watching him scramble to his feet and run away towards the lodge. He swung the blade and just missed, giving him a chance to hop through an open window.

Too bad for him, he ran straight into the arms of The Trapper, who grabbed him by the neck and unceremoniously threw him on his shoulder, earning a pitiful yelp from his victim. 

From this close, The Shape saw the twitch of Evan’s scarred lips beneath the toothy mask, smirking in admiration at his impressive display. Perhaps he should have been concerned by how much he enjoyed the approval. 

Now was not the time for that; their fun had just begun. His killing intent had simmered down and so he decided to go gather the two fallen bodies. 

Once he got to the spot he knew he had left the pink-haired girl, he only found bloodstains and two pairs of footmarks. Ah, looked like the shy one he hadn’t spotted yet felt brave and sneaked up to a fallen teammate to heal them back to their feet. 

Just as well, he didn’t want this to be over just yet. 

The Trapper obviously felt the same for as soon as he threw the bespectacled man on the hook, he promptly left to allow his comrades to go rescue him.

They wanted to draw out the massacre for as long as they could.

Once both exposed to the survivors, they made quick work of decimating them, despite trying as best as they could to draw out the inevitable. It was laughably easy, especially when Michael would chase after someone only to have him or her inadvertently step into a trap. He now saw why Evan liked his contraptions so much. 

He would stand above them ominously, watching them suffer, feeding on their pain and helplessness to build up his killing intent. The Trapper would then arrive promptly and grab them off the floor and throw them on a hook. 

Rinse and repeat. 

The two cheekiest survivors were the first to die, since they took the most risks out of the four of them. The little healer was a tough one to find for she was quiet as a mouse and keeping out of sight. She eventually succumbed to a deadly trap, her loud shriek of pain and the snaps of the rusty jaws alerting them of her presence, and was swiftly picked up by The Trapper.

Something unanticipated happened then. Aside from the healer, only the weak-looking, bespectacled man remained somewhere on the land and no one expected much of him. 

And yet, the young man had picked up a flashlight and with uncharacteristic bravery, was waiting in ambush and rushed out to blind the scarred killer into dropping the girl. Soon recovering, Evan was stunned to have been ambushed this way and looked over at the frightened man, his mood unreadable. Rather than enraged, as one would expect, he almost appeared impressed. 

Sadly, the reluctant leader’s efforts were in vain, for Michael was nearby and wasted no time striking the poor girl down as soon as she landed on the ground and started scurrying away. He leisurely tilted his head, looking down on her before picking her up again and dropping her on the sacrificial hook, the Entity swiftly claiming her body. 

He then slowly turned his gaze towards the final survivor who immediately scuttled away as fast as he could.

The Shape promptly went after him, not intending on letting anyone get away. Although walking at first, he frowned with concern beneath his mask and picked up the pace a bit for he heard the mysterious hum of the open hatch into the distance. 

Could this little worm actually manage to escape?

The Trapper had spotted it first, however, and had obviously anticipated that their prey would make a run for it. Once he knew that Michael had secured the girl, he left them so that he could beat the survivor to it. He allowed him to get inches away from the escape route before heartlessly kicking the hatch close with a deafening ruckus. 

The pitiable man stopped running then, and dropped to his knees in defeat. The ground was already starting to shake beneath his sunken body, the impending collapse of the hunting ground imminent. The look of utter despair on his face reflected the helplessness of his situation and he was finally done trying to run. There was no point; he was mortally wounded and surrounded by two ruthless killers infinitely stronger than he. 

Logic dictates that he should have stayed hidden and let his friends all die. Then, maybe, he would have escaped through the hatch. He clearly knew where it was, judging by the way he headed straight to it. Michael had a hard time comprehending that someone would risk their lives for the sake of someone else. 

Not that he actually cared about his motivations. Now, it was time for him to die and he lifted his large knife to deal the killing blow. 

Evan, however, made a small motion with his hand, silently requesting to let him be. 

Michael tilted his head, puzzled, but he willingly complied.

Did the other want him for himself? He didn’t mind sharing so he stayed put, lowering his weapon and watching curiously what would come next. 

The Trapper crouched down before the smaller man and he slowly, deliberately leaned his frightening masked face close to his. This almost intimate gesture only seemed to unnerve the already terrified prey even more. The young man closed his eyes and held his breath, expecting the worst. 

After letting him squirm for a bit, savoring the effects of his overwhelming presence, Evan addressed him with a deep voice laced with bewildering approval. “You tried your best, little one.” 

Upon hearing the brutish killer speak to him, the reluctant leader’s jaw all but dropped in disbelief. It was the first time he’s heard his voice, after all. He might have thought he was incapable of speech. Michael was almost as surprised as the flabbergasted prey. 

Why was Evan gravitated towards this one particular survivor? 

Was he his Laurie? 

The Trapper contemplated the wounded man for a moment before continuing. “I’ve seen you weak and sniveling. It’s repulsive.” He brought his bloodied weapon to his face and gently caressed down his dirtied and bruised cheek with the back of the blade. “But today, you were brave.”

He slid the cleaver below his chin and lifted his head with it, making the petrified man gasp lightly and look into his eyes. His voice was low and dictatorial. “Strength ought to be rewarded.” 

The shaking victim processed the words, optimism briefly flashing across his features. Still, he glanced over to the other killer with a frown, weary that he wouldn’t be sharing the same compassion. 

He was right. 

Evan saw the averted eyes as an affront and immediately roared with overwhelming authority. “Don’t look at him! I’m the one talking to you!” 

The black-haired man recoiled at the bellowing voice and immediately looked back at him obediently, eyes wide with fright and body overtaken by tremors. He muttered pitifully. “ S…sorry…” 

The Shape took delight in watching the power display, in ways that weren’t so innocent. 

Satisfied by this, The Trapper nodded once, grabbed his prey by the scruff of his neck and effortlessly brought him to his shaking feet. He then pointed his cleaver towards the direction of an exit gate and made a shooing motion with his free hand. 

Upon the hesitant unresponsiveness of the little victim standing before them, The Trapper growled out threateningly. “Best hurry before I change my mind.” 

The survivor didn’t need to be told twice and he started running the best he could despite his crippling injuries. Michael inquisitively tilted his head at Evan, who silently nodded in a beckoning motion for them to both follow after him. 

The bleeding man limped along as fast as he could, occasionally throwing a weary peek between the two killers escorting him. He was understandingly mistrusting but, as they got closer and closer to the exit, one could feel the resolve in his step as hope grew. The clock was rapidly ticking away but if he hurried, he could still power the doors and make it out before the Entity claimed him. 

The Shape was going along with this so far but he did not understand why Evan was showing mercy. It took a lot of self-discipline he didn’t know he had to keep from stabbing him to the ground and claiming the kill himself. 

It all became clear as soon as he saw the injured man pause apprehensively before the door, a look of dismay on his wretched features as he stared down at the ground. There was a methodically placed bear trap in front of the power switch of the exit gate that was blocking his way. Had he been slightly less alert, he would have stepped right into it. With a frown, he glanced over his shoulder at the two killers watching him. 

Deadpan, The Trapper crossed his arms across his large chest. “What are you waiting for?” He callously ordered. “Disarm it.” 

Tears stained the corners of Dwight’s eyes as realization set in. It was impossible for him to both disarm the trap and open the door on time. 

He was being toyed with. 

The resentment and frustration was visible in his face but he still bent over and carefully snapped the trap in his way and hastily pulled on the power switch as soon as he could safely do so. He had to try, despite the heartless gratification he knew it would give his tormentors. Because after all this, what else could he do? Wait for death? He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of giving up. 

To his credit, the survivor did successfully power the door. He even managed to take a couple of steps in the direction of the opened exit before the ghastly claws of the Entity abruptly emerged from the ground, horribly twisted his body and dealt the killing blow. 

Both killers watched the gruesome display, engrossed, savoring the death they had orchestrated and watching the broken, limp corpse disappear into the horrendous embrace of the Entity. 

Michael would have preferred to have the kill himself, nonetheless the outcome was still amusing and he was impressed by Evan’s cruelty. He hadn’t considered that the shrewd and dutiful man’s motivation was not pure tyranny alone. The Entity fed on hope and his ploy had been a way to offer what It craved most. 

Evan’s deep voice broke their silence. “We did good, boy.” 

At the words, The Shape glanced over to The Trapper and felt the churn of excitement low in his stomach at the ravenous look he was given in return. 

They were upon each other promptly and their scrambling, bloodied hands couldn’t tear their clothing open fast enough. 

The cold wind of Ormond’s eternal winter had no effect of their too hot bodies, flustered by lust and the thrill of the hunt. The dark blue coverall was ripped open and the lapels of the black overalls pulled down, exposing just enough skin for them to eagerly proceed. 

The Trapper’s hands grabbed Michael’s backside and roughly squeezed while the latter made quick work of freeing their clothed erections. Lacking purchase, the older man guided them to the wall of the opened exit and urgently pushed him against it. 

Michael wanted to feel Evan inside him but their time on the hunting ground was running out too and so this friction between their bodies would have to do. He let out a small gasp as he felt a large hand reaching between them and gripping their erections together. The weight of the other was pinning him firmly against the red bricks and the steady pace that was set was overwhelming. 

The younger killer bucked against him and frantically clutched his back, blunt fingernails digging into the skin and leaving angry welts behind. Evan seemed encouraged by the pain and with a throaty grunt, rocked their hips together with even more vigor. 

The obscene sound of their leaking, flushed members skillfully stroked together was accompanied by the almost inaudible moans Michael tried hard to bite back. The attentive ears of The Trapper caught them and his breath hitched, always greedily keen on making the younger man loose his stoic composure. He growled into the crook of his neck, his free hand roaming over his body, groping him possessively. He grumbled, voice gravely with lust. “That’s it, boy. Come for daddy.” 

The command took Michael over the edge and he came with a silent gasp and felt the other follow soon after, the sticky mess staining both their stomachs. The Trapper shoved his mask aside just enough to free his mouth, then grabbed Michael’s and pulled it up for a bruising kiss. With teeth and tongues clashing, the parting kiss felt as eager and frenzied as the sex had been. 

Michael Myers couldn’t remember a time he’s felt this exhilarated; save perhaps for the first time he committed murder. 

Dizzily, he recognized this euphoria as what he had been longing for when he took the decision to kill Evan. Turned out he could achieve the blissful amalgamation of lust and death after all, he had simply went about it the wrong way.

Instead of making Evan the victim, they simply needed to both be the tormentors. 

Together. 

Michael was hardly mindful of the fog engulfing him and the ground disintegrating bellow his feet as The Entity reclaimed the hunting ground and It’s two killers, insidiously tearing them away from each other’s embrace. They would surely be sent back to their own realms.

Greedily, he wanted to savor the moment a bit longer but all good things came to an end. 

Once he got back to Haddonfield, once the afterglow passed, surely he would be able to remember the urgency of Herman’s notebook that still weighted in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, I kind of rushed this chapter but I really wanted to update! 
> 
> I've had this idea trotting in my head since I've first saw the two killer glitch. (It's been patched since, haha)  
> I do feel a bit bad for poor Dweet. He's my favourite, too. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!  
> Comments are suggestions are always welcomed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're at the final chapter.  
> I hope you are all ready for some gratuitous smut and men who are terrible at communicating their emotions!

Michael Myers found the stillness of Haddonfield’s endless night to be the perfect complement to the noiselessness that followed the hunt. His hometown was accurately mimicked by the Entity down to the last detail but the most wonderful touch was the ever-burning jack-o-lantern on his porch. Its crudely carved grin shined just for him.

It was always Halloween here, just like that night. 

The blood dripping from the blade belonged to the hapless victims of the fog yet it looked the exact same as Judith’s did back then. 

They all looked the same inside. 

He was never able to explain why but somehow this simple truth brought him peace. 

Sadly, the sense of peace didn’t linger. Shortly after The Shape recognized he had been transported back to his own realm, he recalled why he had forced himself into The Trapper’s trial. The notebook weighted heavily in his back pocket so he pulled it out to examine it. He quickly flipped through the pages, seeking confirmation it was real. 

Normally he enjoyed collecting artifacts from his victims but this was different. The smells wafting off the pages and the feel of the dreaded thing made him vividly visualize the Doctor and his horrible experience in Lery’s. He hallucinated distorted flashes of that gruesome face and he could have sworn he felt the electric current prickle his fingers as he held the leather. 

He gritted his teeth and reminded himself it was all in his head. This was not meant to be a pleasant memento like Judith’s hair or Evan’s mask. It was evidence. He wouldn’t verbally warn The Trapper of what he’d been told but this manuscript was all he needed. The sadomasochism diagrams were self evident despite the indecipherable coded words. 

The Trapper would see his name printed on the front and he would understand. Michael turned the leather bound notebook over in his hand to see its cover. It was just cracked and black leather all around with no marks and no label.

He felt his stomach drop at the discovery. 

He could have sworn he saw ‘Evan Macmillan’ printed on it’s front. However, his mind was altered by Carter’s spark at the time. Could the name have only been printed on the file? The notebook purposefully juxtaposed with the folder for him to draw his own conclusion without any hard proof.

Conceivably. 

Likely, even. 

It seemed Herman’s played him once more. He could almost hear the taunting cackle and it sickened him. 

No matter. 

Even if the Doctor wanted to plant doubt in his mind and potential deniability, he knew it to be true and it’s all that mattered. 

This complicated matters but he would not falter.

The Trapper would understand, somehow. 

Determined, The Shape silently walked down the empty suburban street in the direction of the Macmillan estate. 

…

Troubled and gloomy thoughts plagued the young killer during his short journey and he arrived before he even realized it. He was startled to find himself face to face with The Trapper as soon as he reached the doorway of his home. He was meticulous in his approach as always and deadly silent, therefore the latter hadn’t noticed him and they almost bumped into one another. 

Evan was on his way out. 

Suspicion filled Myers’ thoughts and he tightened his knuckles around his knife, staring intensely at the surprised figure before him. Just where was the man heading off? There was no trial awaiting him since they’ve just returned from one. The notion that he could be going to see Herman Carter skulked in his mind and he felt an ugly jealousy grow. 

The Trapper let out a small, startled grunt at the sight of him. He must not have noticed Michael’s dark mood for a smirk soon grazed his lips and he reached out to touch him without hesitation. Hands firmly on his hips, he pulled him close and chuckled. “You saved me a trip, boy.” 

Michael felt his ire dissipate almost as soon as he heard the words. 

Oh. He was coming to see him. 

From the roaming hands and the not-so-subtle rolling of his hips against his, it was pretty obvious why. Their trial together had been a thrilling experience and their quick tryst by the exit gates must not have been enough for him. 

The Shape was obstinate, though. He was not about to get distracted from his initial goal, no matter how tempting. He pried the lewd hands off his body before marching inside. 

Evan was visibly puzzled and stared at his retreating form incredulously. It might have been the first time the other refused physical advances. He tilted his head and warily followed him, recognizing that something was amiss. He stopped mere inches away from him, arms crossed over his chest and waited. 

Michael could tell that he wanted to ask him what was wrong but remained quiet, opting to allow him to communicate on his own accord. This sign of patience that Myers rarely experienced in his life was appreciated. Without further ado, he took out the notebook from his pocket and pressed it against his chest. 

There was an unusual desperate urgency in the way he did so and Evan grabbed the thing immediately with a frown. He didn’t seem to understand but he curiously flipped through the pages, glancing over the cyphered calligraphy and the detailed sketches. 

Michael was watching him expectantly; optimism blossoming at what he was certain would be an epiphany on the other’s part. 

The Trapper was still turning the pages absently, his gruff voice sounded pinched and perplexed. “That’s Carter’s. How did you get this?” 

From that useless question, Michael quickly surmised that he was missing the point. He clenched his fist in frustration before he pointed at the opened book for him to keep looking through it until he comprehended that this was about him. 

But The Trapper wasn’t looking at the inked scrawls anymore. His eyes were focused on him instead and he had an unreadable demeanor. Perturbed would be the best way to describe it. 

With his jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, he carefully asked. “Michael, did you go see him?” 

The Shape’s irritation was steadily increasing but he nodded his head yes, hoping it would help clarify the situation and the other would finally recognize that he wanted to warn him. 

Instead, Evan dropped the black book on his worktable and seized him roughly by the shoulders, visibly agitated. His fingers dug into the muscle painfully, much to Michael’s confusion. He gripped his knife defensively, wondering if he would be required to use it. 

The anger was obvious but it’s the next words that made it clear that it was not directed towards him. The protectiveness and worry in the other’s strained voice was palpable. “Did he hurt you?” 

Evan looked like he was reconsidering his phrasing to not imply physical weakness on his end. He knew first hand bodily arm wouldn’t halt him and that he could dish it back tenfold. However, he most of all knew that it wasn’t the Doctor’s bludgeoning stick that was the real threat, so he clarified. 

“I mean, did he _say_ anything to you?”

Michael tilted his head at him, taken off guard. 

He was still asking useless questions.

Of _course_ The Doctor said something. 

This was why he was here, struggling to make Evan understand that Herman was just biding his time to unravel and conquer him. Not only did he say something, but also what he said managed to rattle him. Made him question himself and his inadequacies for the first time in his young life. 

Worst of all, just the fact that he was having such difficulties getting his message across was additional proof that the sadistic Doctor was right in mocking him. 

The Shape gritted his teeth, feeling the throbbing shrillness of the white noise grow in his head. This was going much worse than anticipated. 

The other killer was watching him tense up and took it as confirmation but misinterpreting the source of his anxiety. He let out a bitter chuckle before spitting out. “Of course. As if that sick bastard could ever keep his damned mouth shut.” 

The Trapper finally released his hold on him, rubbed his grinning mask in frustration and shook his head, muttering darkly. “I _warned_ him. If he ever did anything to you...” He turned to place his hands on the surface of his workbench as if he needed to steady himself and stared ahead of him with unfocused, rage-filled eyes. Abruptly, he grabbed his heavy, blood-soiled cleaver off the bench and spun to leave. 

The Shape gaped at him, disbelievingly. Now, insufferably, Evan was obviously planning on marching right into The Doctor’s waiting arms. It made those violent, black twists of ire overcoming him once more. 

No. This was the exact opposite of what he came here to accomplish. Promptly, he reached out and seized his wrist to keep him in place. 

The Trapper growled in a beastly manner and yanked his arm away, too blinded by fury to be stilled. If anything, the attempt at stopping him seemed to have incensed him further. Volatile and reactive, he turned to face him, pointing his finger and roaring with authority. “From now on, you stay the hell away from him! You hear me, boy?”

Upon being shouted at, he clenched his knife, tempted to gut Evan for the audacity. He was forbidding him of the very thing he was planning on doing himself. The very thing Michael was here to stop. 

The irony would be laughable if it weren’t so infuriating. The man he was trying to warn against The Doctor’s looming intentions was convinced he was actually the one that needed to be protected. 

The black coils of rage kept twisting inside him, intensified by the shrill white noise buzzing impossibly loud in his ears. His train of thought took a darker turn still.

Why did Evan go see Herman to begin with? None of this would have happened if he hadn’t opened up to The Doctor and befriended him. Why did he allow him to get so close? Close enough to be lusted after, no less. He shouldn’t need anyone aside from Michael any more. 

The Shape was indulgent enough to refrain from using his blade but he harshly grasped Evan’s forearm that was pointed towards him. He held tight, displaying his surprising strength despite the other’s attempt at freeing himself. It was impossible for the older killer to ignore his aggressive adamancy.

Yet, it was also obvious that Evan didn’t comprehend why the other was trying to stop him. He tried to placate him, though audibly irritated at the struggle. “I can handle myself, boy. I know how he is and I’m going to go take care of it.” 

No, The Trapper didn’t know how he was. Not really. 

He thought he knew but that was also part of the Doctor’s manipulation. Herman made him see what he wanted him to see. Showed him just enough ill intent to appear transparent and just enough kindness to appear friendly despite it all. Evan thought he was guarded to his maniacal ways yet didn’t notice the other man’s desire for him.

Michael wanted to make him see but it was all unraveling out of his control. So, he tightened his bruising grip on his arm even more, his blunt fingernails digging into the scarred skin. He heard the small, pained hiss he drew out but didn’t relent. 

After all, The Trapper would head over and do what, exactly? 

Yell? Beat him bloody? Kill him? 

Michael already killed The Doctor since that’s all he knows how to do but he was not foolish enough to think it changed anything. Death was never permanent in this world. 

If anything, Herman would probably be expecting Evan and be delighted at his anger. He would feed off it. He would take the occasion to play with his head like he’s done with him. Hell, that pervert might actually enjoy the struggle. It would just be another occasion to test the waters, see how far he could push. A new assessment of The Trapper’s pain tolerance and his triggers; take notes for his future plan to dominate him. 

The thought of having that man lay his hands on Evan in any sort of way repulsed him. No more. He wouldn’t even tolerate The Doctor’s unnerving blackened eyes looking at what didn’t belong to him any longer. He would gouge them out if he ever came around again.

Most importantly, The Trapper was not going anywhere near him anymore. He foolishly did enough of that in the past. Now he was his and he would be made to understand the error of his ways. 

Evan Macmillan was resilient and brutal but so was Michael. There was always an unspoken deal between them when they played rough. Neither would use their whole strength for they would inadvertently kill each other. 

Still, the older killer was not taking kindly to being manhandled and restrained this way. Unable to free himself from the vice grip by tugging, he growled and lifted his cleaver above his head. He swung the heavy weapon down on his captor’s skull but despite his rage, he didn’t intend the blow to be fatal. He chose to hit him with the handle. 

Michael didn’t even try to dodge the hit. He knew it connected and even felt a trickle of blood drip down his brow but in the state he way in, pain didn’t register. He did finally let go of Evan’s wrist but the momentum of being suddenly released while struggling made the man stumble backward. 

The Shape took advantage of his misstep and quickly grabbed him by the neck and ruthlessly slammed his head down on the workbench. The other’s stunned grunt was hardly heard over the metal rattling of the traps from the heavy impact. He pressed himself behind the bent form, his weight and the hand on back of his neck effectively pinning him down.

Michael felt the powerful and enraged Trapper trash beneath him while hissing curses. In response, he just pushed his masked face down harder against the wood and kicked his feet apart, making him lose what little footing he still had. 

His breathing was ragged and heavy beneath the white latex but it wasn’t only due to the exertion of holding the other down. 

Having the normally domineering and brutish man pinned beneath him at his mercy like this awoke something in him. He looked appealing when he writhed, teeth gritted with fury. He was starting to see why The Doctor wanted to break him so much.

The Trapper must have felt the evidence of his growing arousal press against him for he stopped cussing and let out a soft groan. He was still struggling but there was no real bite behind it now. It was almost as if he were doing it out of principle. 

Michael watched him curiously, intrigued by this turn of event. While still keeping his vice grip on his neck, he pressed the sharp tip of his blade against his throat and leaned down to hear the hitched gasp in response. Pleased with the sound, he then gradually dragged the knife over his marred skin, stopping between his powerful shoulder blades. 

Impulsively, he cut the blood stained fabric of Evan’s clothing down to his waist, exposing the broad back. He put down his weapon and finished ripping at the overalls with his hand, exposing more scarred flesh. 

His breathing became heavier still as he ran his hand down Evan’s spine, enjoying the shivers his touch evoked. He’s never seen him from this angle before, bent over breathless, muscles quacking. 

The Trapper was bigger than Michael, there was a fullness to him he appreciated as his hand travelled down to his hips. He groped the flesh and pressed himself flush against his bared ass. He let out an almost inaudible sigh at how good it felt, despite still being fully clothed. He craved more.

Evan didn’t seem to mind the attention, judging by his uneven breathing and the way he gripped the edge of the workbench. The turned his head the best he could, glancing up defiantly at Michael. 

“What are you waiting for, boy?” He pushed his hips back against his, the motion was teasing and despite the breathlessness of his deep voice, his tone was commanding. “If you’re going to fuck me, then fuck me.” 

The Shape slowly tilted his head at him. 

Still giving orders? 

Fine. He didn’t have to be told twice. 

Michael never penetrated him, or anyone else for that matter. When they fucked, he was always on the receiving end. Not that he minded at all. He enjoyed all aspects of their usual dynamic, but now a new occasion presented itself. 

Evan was a dominant man by nature and clearly liked being in charge. That much was obvious. Yet, there were times when he would be sucking him off and Michael grabbed him by the back of his head and took control of the pace. The Trapper would let him. More so, there’d be a look in his eyes that betrayed how much he enjoyed having a cock shoved into him. 

Michael made quick work of unzipping his dark blue coverall, pulling out his straining erection. With an inaudible sigh, he pressed the leaking tip between the Trapper’s cheeks. He was craving friction and, almost too eager, he rubbed the sensitive flesh against his hole. 

He heard a gasp from the large man beneath him who rolled his hips up in response. Despite this, he felt reluctance from him. Perhaps he was wary that he would just push into him without any preparation. Though inexperienced, the young man still knew better than that. Bogeyman or not, there was a limit to his cruelty and Evan never would have done that to him. 

Michael fumbled around the sharp metal littering the workbench, looking for the clear oil The Trapper used on his bear traps that often doubled as lubricant. He did his best, stretching him the way he recalled being done to him but the warmth and the incredible tightness distracted him. His large fingers were rough in their aim, unlike Evan’s experience touch. 

Still, judging by the moans that came in tandems with his moving fingers, he must not be doing so terribly. He let go of Evan’s neck to instead reach down his front, grasping the straining erection and stroked him a few times. 

He released the other to push up his mask, just enough to free his mouth and leaned down to bite on his shoulder. This earned him a hiss that turned into a moan and only encouraged, bit him again, hard. 

Those noises were riling him up, having never heard Evan sound quite like that before. 

Knowing no one else ever would. 

Possessiveness grew steadily and frantically inside him. He wanted more. Needed more. Evan was his alone and he needed to take him. Marking him like this wasn’t enough, he needed to claim him fully and so he suddenly withdrew his fingers and pushed into him with one, slow thrust. 

The tightness was heavenly and better than he could have imagined. Greedy still, he wanted more and to start moving but the mute killer heard a strained grunt beneath him and faltered. 

The Trapper turned his head to look up at him, looking positively ravished. He clenched his fist, aggravated by his reluctance and barked out gruffly. “Come on, boy. _Move_.” 

Michael blinked in incredulity but was certainly more than happy to comply. His fingers grabbed his hips, digging into the flesh in a bruising grip and he began thrusting mercilessly into him. 

The punishing pace must have been just what his lover wanted, he was writhing against him and trying his best to push back despite the hands holding him still.

“That’s it, boy.” The Trapper was panting hard, the gruffness of his voice sounding slightly more desperate now. “Don’t stop.” 

The Shape felt a flutter in his gut at the encouraging words but truthfully he would be unable to slow down even if he wanted to. It felt too good and he was too willful to do anything other than what he desired. His own barely audible moans where drowned out by the sound of the slapping flesh and the clattering of the traps on the workbench Evan was pushed against. 

His orgasm surprised him in its intensity but he still didn’t stop fucking into him. He wanted to make him come while still being inside so he grabbed his neglected erection and stroked him into finishing. He heard the choked cry and felt him clench around him and he had to pull out now, feeling too overwhelmed by the stimulation. 

Dizzied, Michael leaned against him with his head resting in the middle of his back. He didn’t want to let him go. But, eventually, he felt the stirring beneath him and he reluctantly detached himself. 

The Trapper slowly raised and turned to face him. He grunted a small, pleased noise before cupping Michael’s cheek, which was still exposed from his rolled up mask. His rough and calloused thumb lightly caressed his jaw line as he muttered with a little head tilt. “You were good, boy.” 

The Shape felt the corner of his lip twitch up, too glad for the praise to worry about it being seen by the other.

The Trapper must have noticed because he smirked too. However, he suddenly narrowed his eyes and grabbed him by the throat, squeezing the air out of him as he pulled him closer to hiss in his ear. “But don’t make a habit out of this.” 

Michael gulped at the sudden choking hold but remained otherwise stoic to the intimidation. Yet, since he genuinely hadn’t planned on it, he nodded his head in reply. Still, didn’t mean he wouldn’t try again if the fancy took him. He seriously doubted that The Trapper would deny him if it did. 

Satisfied by this, the older man released him and leaned back against his workbench. If he felt discomfort from their previous activity, he was hiding it well. He hadn't bothered trying to cover his nudity yet, the clothing he had on were too destroyed and he didn't seem to be in the mood to seek others. He unexpectedly let out a raspy chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief before looking over at him. “You really don’t want me to go, huh, you damned brat.” 

Michael Myers really didn’t. 

To illustrate this, he closed the gap between them and held him close. His arms wrapped around Evan in such a strong hold that it must have bordered on painful. Slowly; almost imperceptibly, he shook his head no against the crook of his neck.

The Trapper tsked at him in half-hearted annoyance at his childishness but he wrapped his robust arms around him and returned the tight embrace. “Fine.” 

 

…

 

“Michael, listen to me…” The Trapper looked at him earnestly, his tone serious but he seemed oddly uncomfortable despite being the one to initiate conversation. They were both seated on the floor, leaning against the workbench and had been doing so quietly for some time before he broke the silence. He opened his mouth and closed it again with a frown, trying to find the right words, no doubt. 

Michael slowly turned to look at him and tilted his head slightly.

It was weird. 

Evan didn’t do talks. 

Though puzzled by this odd behavior, he waited tolerantly for him to speak his mind. 

The Trapper didn’t seem like he was about to give up, despite not being sure how to proceed with what he wanted to say. That frustration actually helped him break he ice and he growled out, gesturing decisively with his hands. “A man ought be able to show how he feels through actions. It should be apparent without needing to actually _say_ it.” 

The frustration wasn’t directed towards the younger killer for once; he looked like he was scorning himself.

He turned his head towards Michael, his tone more leveled now. “The way you’ve been acting lately, well, makes me think you have doubts.”

He shrugged his large shoulders and grumbled. “Maybe it’s Carter that got in your head or maybe it’s something else. I’m not sure but it doesn’t matter. If you have doubts, then it means I failed you.” 

How typically Evan this all sounded. The dutifulness he always felt. 

“So I got thinking…” He seemed uncertain again and looked away for a brief moment. He was clearly treading in uncomfortable waters but not backing down. “Just to be sure you understand, you need to hear it, at least once.” 

The Trapper then brought his gaze back to him, peering into the black holes in the white latex to lock eyes with him. His own toothy mask hid his facial expression but it didn’t deter away from the sincerity he was conveying. 

He spoke with resolve, his deep voice sure and penetrating. “I’m never going anywhere. Ever.”

The simple words impacted the Shape more than he anticipated, though he remained outwardly apathetic. He was surprised to feel a flutter in his chest at the implication. 

The Trapper frowned and glanced down at his scarred and bloodstained hands. From the morose demeanor, he seemed to be reminiscing about things he rather not recall. This was a strange thing for Michael, who never had any remorse for the horrible things he’d done.

Still, he too had moments in his life he rather not think about; The asylum; Doctor Loomis’ gunshots keeping him from killing Laurie; his encounter with Herman Carter. 

Evan shook his head and his stare seemed far away as he gestured vaguely around them. “All of this, my life before this place, all the suffering, all the death …” He looked away from the metal equipment and the fog that surrounded them and brought his attention back on Michael. He spoke in an unusually low voice. “The only damn thing that matters in the end is that it’s brought me to you.”

There was a glimpse of vulnerability in those words that Macmillan normally kept bottled up inside. It was nothing too overtly sentimental but anyone who knew him would understand that a declaration like this was a rare occurrence. Michael would occasionally take his mask off for him despite how uncomfortable he felt being bared that way, so maybe he felt it was only fair to reciprocate. 

“I’ll be by your side as long as you’ll have me and even then …” He trailed off, as if he rather not explicitly say that the other could leave him. As if the words would somehow actualize his dread. Instead, he resumed with a determined tone. “If it ever comes to that, I’ll do everything I need to claim you back. I did it once, I can do it again.”

With the sternness of his voice and the intensity of his assertiveness, it almost sounded like a threat. 

The Shape felt another flutter, in his gut this time, from the thrill of being desired with a vicious passion. That this ruthless man would fight for him. 

The Trapper considered him quietly for a beat and he closed the gap between them, his hand wrapping around his throat before traveling to the back of his neck. His calloused fingers slipped beneath the slit of his mask, tousling his real locks absently before gripping the back of his head in a strong hold. He pressed his forehead against his in an intimate gesture. From this close, all Michael could see where his haunted eyes behind the mask staring penetratingly into his. 

Evan held him there and let out a low rumble before declaring. “You’re _mine_ , Michael, and I’m going to make sure you never forget it.” 

_You’re mine._ Those words resonated within him. 

The statement was so funny to Michael that he felt the corner of his lips twitch beneath his mask in response. How silly. Didn’t The Trapper know it was actually the other way around? 

Nevertheless, the younger killer was starting to think that perhaps life wasn’t so black-and-white. 

He freshly discovered there was more to his existence than just stalking and killing. Granted, there was the carnage, which was wonderful and never ending in this realm, but there was also Evan. If his existence could have two fixations, there could also be other nuances he hadn’t grasped yet. 

Maybe possessiveness could go both ways and they were both each other’s. 

Perhaps obsessive attachment could be shared equally between two men. Was that what love was? He wouldn’t know. He’s never loved anyone, not even his own mother. Perhaps it was as close to it as someone like him would be able to get. 

The realization was awe-inspiring to The Shape and he was grateful for the smell of sweat and blood accompanied by the warmth of the other’s breath on his mask to keep him grounded. 

Michael slowly brought his hands up and placed them behind the other’s head, mirroring the gesture done to him. He pressed the hard surface of the cracked mask harder against his, strong hands grasping the other’s skull covetously. Surely Evan would comprehend that he heard and understood him. That he felt similarly. After all, a man ought be able to show how he felt through actions.

The Trapper understood. 

There was a ghost of a smile on his scarred lips and he muttered quietly. “Good.” 

His hands released their hold on him and Michael’s did the same. The older man nodded once, mainly to himself, satisfied. He said all that needed to be said and now things could go back to how they were. How they should be. 

Evan Macmillan would probably start tinkering away on his deadly traps soon, his idle hands itching for work to keep him busy. The Entity’s ominous whispers would be reminding him of his duty to It. Michael Myers would probably loiter by, watching him, or occasionally gaze at his blade interestedly as the desire to plunge it into unsuspecting victims would strike him. The white noise would slowly creep into his mind then, insidiously. 

For now, however, both killers simply sat close to one another. They did not need anything aside from each other’s company. 

There was no white noise for Michael and no whispers for Evan.

There was nothing but comfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m finally done these boys’ story, but it doesn’t mean I’m done writing DBD fics! (Let’s be real, if I do, Evan and Michael will probably make appearances.)
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Also, thank you so much for the kind comments. :')  
> Those honestly made my day and it definitely encouraged me to keep writing.


End file.
